The Heir and the Spare
by sleepyvalentina
Summary: My sister keeps telling me the media is way too hard on Prince Edward—that he isn't an arrogant, self-entitled bastard and I'd like him if I got to know him. Right. The more time I spend with His Royal Heinous, the more I want him to leave me alone. But he won't, and since the tabloids already think I'm sleeping with him, he might as well kiss me.
1. Prologue

Welcome!

This is a Fandom Gives Back piece for Happymoon35 who is quite possibly the most patient person on earth. It will be a full-length, multi-chaptered story.

* * *

**The Heir and the Spare**

**Prologue**

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

When Her Majesty Queen Charlotte refused to grant her eldest son a divorce from his estranged wife, she did so hoping to force them to reconcile. She never expected her daughter-in-law would go to such lengths to be free. Yet after she was briefed on the details of the automobile "accident" in which Princess Elizabeth had perished, the Queen could no longer pretend she hadn't intentionally taken her own life.

Her Majesty doubted she'd ever be able to understand why her son's marriage was such an utter failure. After all, her own marriage had been arranged. She and Prince Peter came from a generation of royals free of romantic notions. Duty came before emotion, and physical attraction (or lack thereof) never entered the equation. Though she wouldn't deny there'd been a period of adjustment, even in the beginning they'd shared a deep, mutual respect. In time, they'd even learned to love each other. She couldn't be sure her husband never kept mistresses, but if he had, he'd done so with enough discretion that neither she nor the press ever found out about it.

Meanwhile, her son's infidelities were the lead on the news. More often than not, they were followed by opinion pieces questioning whether such a man was fit to inherit the throne and what purpose, if any, royalty served in modern society.

The monarchy she'd devoted her entire life to preserving was now in danger because her son couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Because polls seemed to indicate that the Queen had a better chance of raising Princess Elizabeth from the dead than she did of redeeming her heir apparent in the eyes of his subjects, the future of the monarchy rested on the shoulders of her grandchildren. After much introspection, she grudgingly realized that while there were no guarantees, there was one thing she could do that would make them less likely to repeat their father's mistakes.

She would allow her grandsons to marry for love.


	2. Not Today Esme!

Happy Father's Day!

Thank you to Josh, the father of my children and the beta of this chapter.

Any missed errors are like my stretch marks—totally his fault.

There've been some questions about my update schedule. I don't have one. But this one is flowing, and that bodes well.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Not Today, Esme!**

* * *

_**Not-Today Esme Moves into Prince Carlisle's Royal Apartments**_

_Months after a rumored break-up, sources confirm Esme Platt has taken up residence with Prince Carlisle at Masen Palace. Does this mean an engagement is imminent? Our inside sources agree: Not Today, Esme! It begs the question—didn't her mother ever tell her men don't buy the cow when they can get the milk for free?_

**-o-O-o-**

"They'd die if they knew the advice Mom really gave me." Esme flops onto the sofa beside me, giggling. "Men are like carpets," she says, imitating our mother's voice. "If you lay them right the first time..." She erupts into hysterical laughter.

My older sister has been dating Prince Carlisle since their first year of college. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, it's been an on-again-off-again, somewhat tumultuous relationship. The truth is, they've never been off—that's just the story they've circulated when she's needed a break from the attention that comes with being romantically linked to the world's most eligible bachelor.

In the beginning, she tried to ignore what the tabloids said about her. When it got to the point that she couldn't open a web-browser window without seeing her name in the headlines, we developed our now-weekly ritual. After throwing back a few drinks, we'd read the gossip blogs together and laugh over the ridiculousness of it all.

I can't keep a straight face as I continue reading the article aloud. "'Regardless, there's one thing we do know: If Prince Carlisle ever _does_ pop the question, it would be the first time a non-virgin has been considered an appropriate spouse for the heir to the throne.'"

"Oh please," she says, rolling her eyes. "I was totally a virgin."

"Yeah, maybe ten years ago."

She takes a gulp from her wine glass then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "And so was Carlisle—not that _his_ status matters to anyone. Whatever. I still wouldn't have been the first."

I look over my laptop at my sister. "Wait, who else wasn't a virgin?"

Her eyes dart from side to side, as if she's looking to see if the walls in my flat have ears.

"Prince Peter," she whispers.

I laugh. "I don't think they're talking about the men. I mean, unlike you, they're generally not brought into the royal family with the express purpose of serving as brood mares."

"Bella." She's whined my name this way for as long as I can remember. "Don't start."

"A gilded cage is a still a cage, Esme."

She sighs. "You know he loves me."

"This isn't about him," I insist.

And it isn't.

Over the past ten years, I've gotten to know His Royal Highness Prince John Carlisle Alexander quite well. I didn't want to like him, but I found it impossible not to. He was everything you'd expect of royalty: handsome, charming, educated, and well-spoken. And it was obvious he thought the sun rose and set by my sister.

If he didn't come complete with an overbearing grandmother and an antiquated monarchy, he'd be perfect for her.

"I just worry about some of the things you're giving up..."

_Like your freedom._

I may think it_, _but I know better than to say it. "I don't want you to feel as if you have to do this. Your life won't be over if you change your mind. Working with Daddy and me may not be your thing, but you know he'd let you run the Foundation if you wanted. You could cut ribbons and kiss babies all you want without the tabloids having any reason to theorize about the status of your hymen."

"Look at me, Bella." She takes the laptop from my hands and places it on the coffee table in front of us. "I'm not like you. I don't have an MBA from Wharton, and I'm not trying to change the world. All I've ever wanted to be is a wife and mother."

I know this all too well. The ambition that compelled our father to build a hundred million dollar kingdom out of nothing? None of it rubbed off on Esme. My drive to grow Dad's success into an empire? It's completely beyond her comprehension—just like I can't for the life of me understand how an intelligent woman like my sister could ever be happy living her life as glorified arm candy in a borrowed tiara.

"You could have that with anyone," I remind her.

"But I fell in love with him."

"So be his mistress. Have him, have his babies—"

"And then have to share him with his wife? You know, if you'd..." She shakes her head. "Never mind."

"What?"

"Is this what business school does to a person? You never used to be this cynical."

"Cynical?" It comes out a bit more loudly than I would have liked. "Hardly. I'm just being realistic. You're the one whose head is so high up in the clouds you can't see what a huge mistake you're making."

"That's why Carlisle asked me to move in with him," she says quietly. "So I'd be able to make an educated decision when he finally does propose. I thought you understood that."

I shrug. These days where she's concerned, I don't understand much of anything. For a moment, there's silence. And it's damned uncomfortable.

"Okay," she says. "Next headline."

I pick my up my laptop and click the next link. "'Is Prince Edward's Supposed Humanitarian Mission a Cover for a Stint in Rehab?' Oh, this should be good."

"The media is really cruel to him."

I give her the side eye.

She throws her arms up in exasperation then lowers them, smacking her hands against her thighs. "What now?"

"When you take into account his choice of recreational activities, it would seem as if he brings it on himself."

"You've never even met the man."

"And I hope I never do."

"You know, I've been painted as a social climber."

"What's that have to do with anything?"

"Well," she says, "we both know it couldn't be further from the truth."

"So?"

"Doesn't Edward deserve the same benefit of the doubt?"

I laugh. "If you say so."

"Wait until you meet him. You'll see."

All I can see is a guy who dresses up as a suicide bomber for a Halloween party only to have undercover national security officers show up and evacuate the building, but I keep that to myself for now. Besides, my sister is about to give up her autonomy, her personality, and her freedom to marry the guy's brother.

What could she possibly know?


	3. His Royal Highness

**thanks to j. **

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**His Royal Highness**

* * *

**Today's the Day, Esme!**

**Longtime Girlfriend of Prince Carlisle Finally Gets Her Ring**

Apparently, patience pays off. After a decade-long courtship, Prince Carlisle has finally decided to make an honest woman of his live-in love Esme Platt. They announced their betrothal at a brief, early-afternoon press conference. Miss Platt appeared wearing an engagement ring that once belonged to his great-grandmother, an Edwardian piece featuring a five carat diamond and a platinum filigree band.

When asked how it felt to know she'd be queen one day, she flashed a nervous smile. "It's overwhelming. I can only hope I won't be a disappointment."

Prince Carlisle wasted no time intervening. "She'll be fabulous," he said, grinning at his betrothed. "Esme has succeeded at everything she's ever taken on; this will be no different."

Though a wedding date has not been set, the happy couple has expressed their desire to keep the impending nuptials "small and intimate".

**-o-O-o-**

The moment Esme and I are alone, she bursts into tears.

"It seems as if everything has already been decided. I'm not sure why I'm being included in the wedding planning at all, considering I have no say in anything."

"What happened?"

"I made one request—I just wanted to ride to the ceremony in a car—you know how frizzy my hair gets. But tradition dictates I take a horse-drawn carriage, and Her Majesty was livid I'd even consider doing otherwise. She sent me a text that said, 'What's next? Riding down the aisle to the altar on a Segway?'"

I squint at her, unable to wrap my mind around what I'm hearing. "The Queen knows how to text?"

"Bella, stay on topic!"

"Sorry. It's just surprising, that's all."

"I know this shouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but I've been dreaming of my wedding ever since I was little and if I'm going to get married in front of billions of people, I'd like not to look like a troll!"

I'm not sure what to tell her. She couldn't have expected she'd get much of a say with regard to the wedding—it's the monarchy's big moment, not hers. Part of me is surprised she was naïve enough to even entertain the notion otherwise. Then again, she's spent a lot of time trying on tiaras this week, and it's a well-known fact they inhibit brain power. Anyone who's ever had to sit through the interview portion of a beauty pageant can attest to this.

Regardless, she's my sister, and I hate to see her like this.

I'm still trying to figure out what to say when I hear a voice from across the room.

"Mind if I hide out here for a while? I'd rather not be at my apartment right now. I revoked Lauren's access and don't want to be anywhere near the tantrum she throws when Marcus tells her she and I are over."

Esme starts to laugh through her tears, and I turn in the direction of the voice, curious to see which of Carlisle's friends could possibly be this much of a dick. I think I'd recognize him even if I hadn't spent the summer after sixth grade licking his photo in an attempt to teach myself how to French kiss. The way in which he regards his surroundings is as telling as his features. That kind of ennui is usually only present in people who've seen it all.

It's His Royal Highness Prince Edward, also known as the Spare to the Heir.

I've seen so many pictures and videos of him over the years, seeing him in the flesh is a bit surreal. I could say that in person his hair seems a bit more red or that his smile comes off as less cocky, and both would be true. Then I see his eyes, and I have this moment of clarity during which his title starts to makes sense. Though what's "Royal" about him remains to be seen, the size of his pupils would seem to indicate that "His Highness" is pretty damned accurate.

"I hope I'm not interrupting." His gaze settles on Esme, and his face becomes one of what appears to be genuine concern. "You've been crying? Wait, you haven't had an—"

"No." She jumps to her feet, shaking her head. "No, nothing like that—just wedding planning. Speaking of which, I'd truly hoped we wouldn't see you until then."

He wobbles a bit then stumbles forward. Right away, Esme's arms are around his waist. She manages to make it look like an embrace, but the way the muscles in her legs are flexing it's obvious she's supporting his weight.

"This morning, I was still fucking furious about it. Now I'm just...dealing with it." He pats her dismissively then slowly tries to stand on his own. He falls face forward, slamming his head against my chest. I close my eyes at the point of impact, and when I open them, his head is on my lap. He looks up at me, seemingly perplexed.

"Hello," he says. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

"Edward, meet my sister, Bella. Bella, this is His Royal Highness Prince Edward."

I force a smile. "Hello, Sir."

He looks up at me as if he's waiting for me to do something or say something. After a moment, I think I know what it is—and it does nothing to endear him to me.

"It's nice to meet you, Sir. Please forgive me; our current position prohibits me from curtsying."

When he opens his mouth, I assume he's going to say something. By the time I realize he's about to puke, His Royal Highness has already covered me with His Royal Vomit.

If anything, I think maybe the tabloids have gone easy on him.


	4. His Royal Vomitous

Though there's no question this was inspired by Kate and William's wedding, this isn't meant to be the British Royal Family. Think of it as you would a fairy tale—taking place in a land far, away with its own culture and protocol.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_**His Royal Vomitous**_

* * *

_**Is the Royal Engagement Off?**_

_**Esme Platt Seen Fleeing Masen Palace**_

It appears there's trouble in paradise. Late last night, paps caught the princess-to-be darting from a chauffeured car into baby sister Bella's apartment building. It was a rare sighting indeed. The usually impeccably groomed royal fiancée was spotted with wet hair and no make-up, sporting the electric blue raincoat she wore to opening day at the races over a pair of jeans. Noticeably absent from her ensemble? Her engagement ring.

A call to Masen Palace was not immediately returned.

**-o-O-o-**

**COMMENTS **(showing 1-4 of 427)

**anon**

I call dibs on Carlisle.

**royal watcher1**

Uh, yeah. It probably WAS her sister. Sorry, not buying this.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

I took the pics. Trust me—it was Esme. I've been stalking Bella's building for months now. She doesn't dress well enough for anyone to confuse her with her sister.

**hrh princess edward**

Meh. Don't really care if Carlisle's back on the market. I'm saving myself for the spare.

* * *

"You'll never guess who's waiting out in the reception area."

Generally, my admin is hugely helpful and a lot of fun. But I specifically asked that I not be disturbed, so I don't bother hiding my annoyance at her intrusion.

"You're probably right," I say, without looking up from my laptop. "And you know what? I'm way too busy to care who's waiting in the reception area. Heidi, I thought I made it clear when I came in this morning—I'm totally swamped. So even if The Queen herself were to show up and ask to see me, unless she has an appointment, I can't work her in."

"You did," she says, "but I'm not here to announce The Queen..."

"Good. Because like I said—"

"Hello, Isabella."

The male voice I just heard can't possibly belong to whom I think it does. I take a deep breath and slowly raise my eyes from my computer screen. Sure enough, standing on the other side of my office is evil incarnate in a bespoke suit.

No. This cannot be happening to me.

"...just her grandson," she finishes. "I'll be at my desk if you need anything."

Before I can yell at her, she's stepping out of my office, pulling the door closed behind her.

For a good minute or two, His Royal Vomitous and I just look at each other. It's like that game kids play—the one where you stare each other down and see how long it takes before someone blinks. It always used to present me with a bit of a conundrum. My intense need to win would battle with my equally intense hatred of wasting time valuable time playing games. At times my competitive streak would manage to trump my need to feel productive, but only if I perceived my opponent worthy enough of the effort.

After what happened last night, I _should_ be doing everything in my power to get myself out of projectile vomit range—not to mention how inconvenient his visit is given all the work I have to do. Thanks to Esme's horse-drawn-carriage-induced mini-breakdown, I'm nowhere near ready for tomorrow's meetings.

If there was ever a time it made sense to blink, it's right now. Then again, Prince Edward can't even keep down his dinner. Why should I swallow my pride? My eyes narrow ever so slightly, but they stay open.

He cocks his head to the side. Then, as if in a silent challenge, he raises his eyebrows and nods toward the center of the room.

Oh no. There's no way he thinks I'm going to genuflect to him. After what he did yesterday, he can't possibly expect _that_ of me.

A corner of his mouth rises in an arrogant half smile, and I realize that's _exactly _what he expects. Grudgingly, I rise to my feet and move out from behind my desk. When I'm directly in front of him, I stomp my right foot behind my left heel and bend my knees.

Regardless of how I feel about the monarchy or even His Royal Over-Entitled-ness as a person, I'm well aware of the extent to which my behavior reflects upon my sister. I may not think one's parentage entitles one to special treatment, but I won't let my political beliefs interfere with my manners. Besides, does it really matter if I've curtsied? I still haven't blinked.

Another moment passes. Etiquette dictates I'm not to speak unless spoken to. So I wait.

And I stare.

Admittedly, the view isn't half bad—not that I'd expect otherwise. According to the media, he's the hot prince. It's about as laughable as the fact I'm referred to as the smart sister. Esme has a genius I.Q., and I don't know anyone who'd kick Carlisle out of bed.

I stare some more.

At some point, my big toe falls asleep. I think I could probably wiggle it back to life inside my shoe without him noticing, but on the off chance my shoe comes off in the process, I decide not to risk it.

It's not long before the rest of my foot follows suit. Damn it.

Just when I think we'll be standing here forever, he throws his head back and laughs.

Fuck etiquette. I refuse to be mocked in my own office.

"Is something funny, Your Royal Highness?"

"Hilarious." He doesn't elaborate.

More silence. I start to think he's doing this on purpose. This time, I _do_ blink.

"With all due respect, Sir, I have a very full day–"

"As do I, Isabella."

Of course he does. The Royal Pot Stash won't smoke itself.

He laughs again, and I wonder if the fact I think he's full of shit shows on my face.

"It appears my reputation has preceded me," he says.

"No, Sir—only the contents of your stomach."

"So I'm told. I came to convey my sincerest apologies."

Note to self—send email to Masen Palace suggesting they update the etiquette portion of their website to include how to respond when a prince shows up at your office unannounced to offer his apologies for throwing up on you.

"Thank you, Sir. It's very...considerate of you."

"Esme means the world to me, and since you mean the world to her, I hate that we started out this way. I'd rather not get into it, but please believe me when I tell you there were extenuating circumstances. When you get to know me, you'll see that the way I behaved last night is more the exception than the rule."

"_When_ I get to know you? That's rather presumptuous, don't you think, Sir?"

"Even if I weren't in the process of asking you to have dinner with me tomorrow evening—which I _am_, by the way—the fact your sister is about to marry my brother guarantees we'll be spending time together." He starts to leave, then turns back to me, smiling. "I'll send a car for you."

He's halfway out the door when I call to him. "Excuse me, Your Royal Vom—I mean—Highness?"

"Yes?" He stops walking and pivots on his heel, much like a soldier would while marching.

I want to tell him no. Hell, I get as far as opening my mouth and taking in air. Then I think of Esme and how she feels as if nothing about her wedding is in her control. I know she wouldn't want Prince Edward and I to be at each other's throats, and it's in my power to see to it that we aren't.

"What time should I be ready, Sir?"

"Eight o'clock."

I curtsy again; he leaves. When he's disappeared from view, I lean against my desk and slump my shoulders forward. Something about this whole exchange doesn't feel right, but I can't put my finger on what. Determined not to waste even more time analyzing it, I take a few deep breaths and get back to work.

A few hours later, I realize I just accepted a dinner date with a guy whom, despite having thrown up on me, won't permit me to address him by his first name. I'm livid, but somehow I manage to channel my anger into energy and focus on the reports I need to have ready for tomorrow's meetings.

Much to my surprise, I actually manage to finish them.


	5. His Royal Anus

**thanks to _ash, houseguest and pre-reader extraordinaire**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**His Royal Anus**

* * *

**A New Low for His Royal Highness**

**Hours After Returning from Africa, Edward Dumps Lauren Mallory Via Proxy**

Time zone change be damned. First on Prince Edward's agenda upon return from his "humanitarian mission" wasn't sleeping off his jetlag—it was losing his on-again, off-again main squeeze. Though Sourly Mallory had no comment for our reporter, sources close to her tell us the first thing His Royal Highness did upon his return to The Westerlands was to summon her to his apartment. To add insult to injury, he was nowhere to be found—one of his bodyguards broke up with her_ on his behalf! _

The Prince's camp tells a different story. A Palace insider told us: "It was an unfortunate series of events. When His Royal Highness issued the invitation, he had every intention of being there. Unfortunately, not even a prince has power over flight delays."

Given the Palace's penchant for euphemisms, we're guessing that means he got caught carrying enough benzos to tranquilize an elephant. Hey, it wouldn't be the first time. We all know "humanitarian mission" is Palace-speak for detox.

In case His Royal Highness happens to be reading this, a point of clarification: Step Eight requires you to make amends to the people you've harmed, not add to your list of misdeeds. Maybe your next "humanitarian mission" will be more effective.

**COMMENTS** (showing 4 of 768)

**Palace Alice**

I totally saw that coming.

**hrh princess edward**

good for him. she was trashy anyway

**AA Saved Me**

if the Prince does have a drug problem, he deserves compassion, not mockery. addiction is a serious disease

**Lady in Waiting**

I'd still do him.

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

Heidi buzzes me and, with exaggerated enthusiasm, tells me I have a visitor. There's thirty feet and a closed door between us, but I feel her snark regardless. Somehow, I just _know_.

"From the Palace, right? Tell His Royal Vomitous whatever it is, it can wait until later."

"Relax. It's a palace official with a delivery for you."

Assuming whatever he's delivering isn't third in line for the throne, I think I can handle it.

"Okay. Sign for it, and I'll come out to get it in a few minutes."

"That's the thing," she says. "He says it's of grave importance, and The Prince gave him specific instructions to place it in your hands and your hands only."

His Royal Audacity knows no bounds.

"Just making sure I understand this correctly," I say. "Whatever it is, it's important enough to require some of _my_ time but not important enough to require any of his?"

"Pretty much."

"Do you think they would execute me for regicide if I murdered the person third in line for the throne?"

She laughs. "Should I ask? Because I bet this guy would know."

"Uh, no." I flatten my palms against the top of my desk and take a deep breath—can't have the Royal errand boy reporting back to His Royal Laziness that I was anything other than calm and collected. "Go ahead; send him in."

The Royal Emissary enters my office carrying a large arrangement of purple flowers, expertly arranged in an amethyst crystal vase. As he gets closer, I notice they're tied with a plum velvet ribbon.

Purple is my favorite color, and I wonder if maybe this is on purpose—that His Royal Vomitous cared enough to ask Esme what I liked. The idea makes me uncomfortable. I didn't consider his invitation to the palace this evening to be indicative of romantic interest on his part. If I'd thought there was any chance those were his intentions, I wouldn't have accepted. Then I remember what else purple is—the color of royalty—and I think that's the more likely reason for his selection. Regardless, as floral arrangements go, this one is stunning. It's also a surprisingly nice gesture, even if it does nothing to alter my opinion of him.

I gesture to a table across from my desk. "Right there is good; thank you."

"There's one other thing." He reaches into his bag and retrieves a thick manila envelope. "His Highness requests that you read the enclosed and sign where appropriate. Should you have any questions, my contact information is on the first page. No need to courier it back—just to be sure to bring it with you when you come to the Palace this evening."

I open the envelope and peek inside. "A non-disclosure agreement?"

It's comical and more than a little ironic. Shouldn't he have taken care of this before he puked on me?

"It's all very standard, I assure you," he says.

"Oh, I've no doubt it is." I smile sweetly. "I'll be sure to give it the attention it deserves."

In truth, I don't give it any attention at all—at least, not until I'm in the car on the way to the Palace. I know Esme signed one of these when she started dating Carlisle and, though I don't consider this a date, I'm pragmatic enough to understand why he would feel as if he needed to take these kind of precautions—I mean, if you're going to have your bodyguard end your relationships for you, you kind of _need_ to cover your ass. Besides, my father requires non-disclosure agreements of our employees; it would be hypocritical of me to get my panties in a bunch because His Royal Vomitous asks it of me.

I dump the envelope out onto my lap. On top of the non-disclosure agreement is a smaller envelope, this one made of fine linen stationery. The enclosed sheet is engraved with a large E in fancy script, topped with a crown. I roll my eyes—God forbid I should forget I'm communicating with royalty!

_Isabella, _

_I truly hope you aren't offended. I've learned that when I make new acquaintances, I have to take some precautions—I'm sure you understand. My Private Secretary is available to answer any document-specific questions you may have. Please know that though I don't believe this is necessary in your case, it is, however, standard procedure. _

_Looking forward to this evening,_

_E. _

To be honest, the non-disclosure agreement is the first thing he's done in the past twenty-four hours that _hasn't_ offended me. I start reading. It's exactly what I expected, until I get about halfway down the page.

_The term "proprietary information" means any and all information, in any form, including but not limited to that disclosed to the recipient via verbal exchanges, written communication, and intimate encounters. The term "intimate encounter" refers to any physical contact between His Royal Highness and the recipient, clothed or otherwise, including but not limited to manual stimulation, fellatio, cunnilingus, vaginal intercourse, and anal intercourse. Proprietary information shall also include any observations made by the recipient, including but not limited to opinions on and impressions of His Royal Highness's sexual preferences, abilities, and genitalia. _

At first I'm furious. Then I notice His Royal Anus is not mentioned anywhere in the non-disclosure agreement. I think I know _exactly_ where I'm going to shove it.


	6. His Royal Heinous

**thanks to J**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**His Royal Heinous**

* * *

**Does Prince Edward Have a New Love Already?**

Less than twenty-four hours after breaking things off with longterm main squeeze Lauren Mallory, Prince Edward was spotted coming and going from Dot Swan, the workplace of none other than—get this—Isabella Swan. Don't let the last name fool you! Isabella—called Bella by friends and family—is none other than the younger sister of Esme Platt, royal fiancée to Prince Carlisle. If that wasn't enough to raise eyebrows, this afternoon Emmett McCarty, Private Secretary and sometimes bodyguard to Prince Edward, was also seen entering Dot Swan. According to our sources, McCarty brought a rather sizable floral arrangement to Bella Swan's floor.

Thinking there was a decent chance His Royal Highness dumped Sourly Mallory for Baby Sister Bella, we did a bit of digging. Much to our surprise, we were unable to find any evidence Prince Edward had even met Bella prior to yesterday.

It's not as far-fetched as it seems—Bella has spent the majority of her adult life in the U.S. After graduating from Princeton University, she moved to Silicon Valley to work for Dot Swan. It wasn't until early this year that she returned to The Westerlands, at which point Prince Edward had already left for his most recent "humanitarian mission", making the possibility that they would have interacted prior to this week very unlikely.

Regardless of how it started, Esme's plain-jane sister is nothing like the glam party girls he usually dates. Who knows? Maybe he's following his brother's example and looking to settle down.

There's one thing we _do_ know—if Prince Edward doesn't treat Bella well, the upcoming Royal Wedding will be mighty entertaining!

**COMMENTS** (showing 5 of 212)

**anon**

Bella? I'm looking at the pics you guys posted of her. Is her nickname meant to be ironic?

**Royal Watcher1**

What, every time Prince Edward takes an interest in a woman, we're supposed to think he's screwing her?

**Me**

royal watcher 1 — duh. Yes.

**Lady in Waiting**

If they're sisters, why do they have different last names?

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

Uh...what planet have you been living on? Esme's father died when she was a baby. When she was at university with Prince Carlisle, they bonded over both having lost a parent. Her mother remarried and had a daughter with hubby number two. Dude, it is known.

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

I spend the rest of the drive to the Palace trying to calm down. Losing my temper would only give His Royal Vomitous the upper hand, and that's the last thing I want. Visiting Prince Edward in his apartment is procedurally no different from visiting my sister. It's a lengthy process, so I use the time it takes to go through the various security checkpoints to formulate my game plan. By the time I'm ushered into his living quarters, I know exactly how I'm going to play it.

His Royal Vomitous stands when he sees me. Though there's nothing remarkable about the white dress shirt and dark trousers he's wearing, somehow they make his features that much more striking—his hair seems redder, his jaw stronger, his green eyes more piercing. I won't even try to pretend I don't find him physically attractive—it would be impossible for me not to. The man is gorgeous. That being said, he isn't so gorgeous that I'm able to forget what a douche he is.

"Hello, Isabella."

"Your Highness." I curtsy as I speak and, though I hate every second of it, there's no way I'm giving him the satisfaction of prompting me to do it. In doing it of my own volition, I retain at least some power.

For the briefest of moments, I could swear he looks disappointed.

"You look lovely."

I look down at my rather utilitarian business suit and shrug. "If you say so, Sir."

He drums his fingertips against his leg as he looks at me. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was nervous.

"Thank you for the flowers. You didn't have to do that."

"I disagree. Besides, I wanted to."

"They're gorgeous."

"I'm glad you thought so, but I can't take all the credit—your sister told me what you liked."

"Does Esme know you invited me to have..." I curl my index fingers into quotation marks. "...dinner with you?"

His eyes narrow. "Of course. Why wouldn't she?"

"Is she aware of the fact you were speaking metaphorically?"

"Excuse me?"

"I read the non-disclosure agreement you wanted me to sign." I take it out of my bag and wave it front of him. "By the way, I loved the way your lawyer defined 'intimate encounter', even if I _do_ have the distinct impression cunnilingus was only listed for show. Just so you know, Sir, the only anal intercourse we'll be having involves this document and Your Royal Asshole."

He smiles. "Well, as long there's also a signed copy for my records—"

"Ugh!" I roll up the non-disclosure agreement and smack him on the side of the head with it.

Repeatedly.

I'm not sure what compels me to hit him—only that I can't seem to bring myself to stop.

"You know, Isabella," he says, blocking his face with his hands, "nothing turns me on like a woman who isn't afraid to get physical."

Just like that, my arm drops to my side.

"Now that you've gotten that out of your system, are you ready to discuss this maturely?"

"Right, Sir." I roll my eyes. "Because using a legal document to hit on someone is _so_ mature."

He laughs. "Maybe not. But I'd say it's probably on the same level as using a legal document to hit someone—wouldn't you agree?"

I sigh. I hate that he's right—almost as much as I hate the fact I lost my temper in front of him. I don't know who that was earlier, but it wasn't me.

"Anyway," he continues, "I told you the NDA is standard procedure, and it is."

I fold my arms across my chest. "You honestly expect me to believe that you ask everyone you meet to sign that exact document?"

"What?" He scrunches his face and shakes his head. "No, of course not—just when I like someone. It's my way of making sure I'm prepared in case our relationship should progress to something...more. And for the record, cunnilingus is _not_ on there for show."

I ignore his innuendo. "You like me?"

"Yes."

Right. He doesn't even know me.

"I'm sorry. The NDA as written is both insulting and presumptuous, Sir."

"Not really. If you think about it, it's no different from..." He shakes his head, sighing. "May I look inside your purse?"

"Why?"

"Humor me."

Sighing, I hand it over. It's a bizarre request, but it's not as if the Palace Guard hasn't already been through it.

After a moment of rooting around, he holds up a condom. "_Now_ who's being presumptuous?"

It's all I can do not to strangle him.

"Oh please, Sir. That's hardly the same."

"Isn't it?"

"I've carried condoms in my bag for years. It doesn't mean I expect to get laid. But on the off-chance I _do,_ I don't want lack of protection to ruin the moment."

"Has it occurred to you that I might view the non-disclosure agreement similarly?" Something on the condom wrapper catches his eye. He squints at it for a few seconds, then looks back at me, laughing.

"What's so funny, Sir?"

"Your protection expired two years ago."

My face feels as if it's on fire. So what if it's been a while since I've had sex? It's none of His Royal Heinous's business. As embarrassed as I am, I don't let it show. Instead, I look him straight in the eyes and say the one thing I know will rid me of him once and for all.

"I didn't sign the NDA."

He stops laughing.

"So it would seem neither of us is protected—doesn't it, Sir?"

Silence.

"Now, Sir, if you give me back my bag, I'll be on my way."

"No."

"No?" I repeat, thinking I misheard him.

"Obviously, if you want to leave, I won't stop you. But I'd like it very much if you'd stay and have dinner with me."

"I'm not signing the NDA."

"I'm willing to risk that."

It's then that it hits me: I'm on a real date with a real prince. If he's willing to go bareback—metaphorically speaking, that is—whatever is going on between us means something to him.

So I think about it. I could get over the puke, the so-called humanitarian missions, the tabloid headlines. I might even be able to get over living in a fishbowl. I look over at His Royal Highness. There's something in his eyes that makes me want to stay. Then I remember he's yet to give me permission to address his by his first name.

That's something I _can't _get over.

"I'm sorry," I say, "but I think I should be going."

"I understand."

My hand is on the antique doorknob when I hear his voice.

"Bella?"

I turn to face him. "Yes?"

"Is it because of..." He gestures to the room around him. "...well, this?"

It's a real question, and it deserves a real answer.

"Yes."

"Thank you for your honesty. Good evening, Miss Swan." His face is blank as he nods at me.

A small movement of his head—that's all it is. But it says so much, and I pick up on all of it. Most loudly, it tells me that any familiarity between us is now in the past. Of its own accord, my right foot moves behind my left heel. I bend my knees, but not grudgingly and not out of coercion. I don't know why I do it—just that in this moment, I can't imagine doing anything else.

"Goodnight, Sir."

I don't doubt leaving is the right thing to do. Yet later, after I crawl into bed and close my eyes, all I do is wonder what would have happened if I stayed.


	7. His Royal High Horse

**thanks to j, detochkina, and ljsummers**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**His Royal High Horse**

* * *

**Isabella Swan Is-a-Not-a Swan At All:**

**Paps Catch Prince Edward's New Squeeze on Her Morning Run**

The day after news of her relationship with Prince Edward went public, our photographers captured Bella Swan out for an early-morning jog. Well...it's safe to say no one will ever confuse her with her sister. Makeup-less and wearing stretch pants so old we're pretty sure they predate the advent of electricity, it's hard to believe Not-a Swan could catch the eye of Prince Edward—not that it was easy to begin with. Unlike her photogenic sister, Is-a-Not-a Swan is not at all comfortable with the attention that goes with dating the country's second-most eligible bachelor. For the first twenty minutes we tailed her, she looked behind herself periodically as if checking to see if we were still there.

Eventually, she yelled over her shoulder at us. "Enjoying the view?"

One of our photographers replied, "Not particularly" at which point Not-a Swan made an obscene gesture at us (see pics below).

Even Sourly Mallory has never been so classless. Let's just say that if Not-a Swan doesn't start getting more comfortable living in the public eye, it doesn't bode well for her love affair with The Spare.

**COMMENTS (showing 6 of 253)**

**swatchdogs-N-dietcokeheads**

he can do so much better omg

**anon**

um, I'm pretty sure they didn't WEAR stretch pants before the advent of electricity.

**hrh princess edward**

looks like someone had a great big bowl of bitchy for breakfast this morning! so the paps are following her around. wtf did she expect?

**future royal baby mama**

OMG her VPL! lmao

**Royal Watcher 1**

So the girl doesn't exercise with a full face of makeup and dares to get annoyed when hounded by paps? Bella's a private citizen. You guys should respect that. If anything, that fact she flipped you guys off makes me like her more. Unlike Esme, BELLA (yes, Bella) seems to have a personality. Good for her.

**Assman 11**

so what if she's not as hot as her sister? I'd still do her.

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

"This is_ exactly_ why you don't have a boyfriend."

One glass of wine into our weekly tabloid-blog reading session, Esme wasn't willing to talk about Edward. Three glasses later, he's the _only_ thing she's willing to talk about.

"Seriously? You're going to throw away a perfectly good prince over a non-disclosure agreement and a little bit of vomit? I mean, you went to college—there's no way that was the first time someone puked on you."

"Right. Well, you didn't see the non-disclosure agreement."

"Bella..." She puts her glass down on the coffee table and turns so she's facing me. "What makes you think the one Carlisle gave me was any different?"

I study her face. She doesn't appear to be kidding, but that doesn't mesh with what I know of Carlisle.

"Have you seen the NDA he sent me? It detailed specific sex acts."

She shrugs. "The one I signed made allowances for premature ejaculation. What's your point?"

"Wait." I blink a few times, trying to process what I think she just said. "Does Carlisle—?"

"No," she says, furiously shaking her head. "Oh god, no. But he was inexperienced and wanted to cover all the bases."

"And you didn't think this was at all presumptuous of him?"

"Are you kidding? I was excited by the prospect of doing _anything _with him. Granted, we'd had classes together and been out a few times in groups, so we knew each other a little better than you and Edward do—but not by much. In fact, he wouldn't even kiss me until I signed the NDA."

I roll my eyes. "How romantic."

"You know, it actually _was_. Once we got the paperwork out of the way, I knew it would happen sooner or later. Everything that came next—from the light touches to the deep conversations—it was all part of the build-up to _that _moment. And when he finally did kiss me, it was..." She shakes her head.

"It was..." I gesture for her to continue.

"You're going to make fun of me."

"Probably," I admit.

"Corny and clichéd as it sounds—and it _does_ sound corny and clichéd—the second his lips touched mine, I knew. Anyway, my point is that if you'd signed the NDA, you wouldn't have turned around to find Edward opening his trousers."

Heh. That's what _she _thinks.

"Edward isn't Carlisle."

Feigning shock, she slaps her hand against her thigh. "You've got to be kidding me! Because you know, I had _no _idea."

"You know what I mean. Granted, I don't know His Royal Doucheyness well, but based on what I _do _know, they seem to be polar opposites."

"They're more alike than you realize."

"Oh? So you're saying Carlisle is a pompous ass who makes you curtsy to him and call him Sir?"

"Only when we're naked."

My jaw drops. "You're kidding!"

"Nope." She picks up her wine glass and empties its contents in a single gulp. "Now that I'm appropriately buzzed, let's catch up on the news, shall we?"

I open my laptop and read the top headline on my feed. "'Esme's Starving Herself to Fit into Wedding Gown.'"

"Bah! They've been saying I'm anorexic for years now. Next!"

I'm scanning the page for something more outrageous when thumbnail photo of _me_ catches my eye. When I click on it, it brings up an article titled _Paps Catch Prince Edward's New Squeeze on Her Morning Run._

I stare at the screen in disbelief. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"What is it?" Esme asks.

"You know, I thought it was odd that photographers followed me jogging this morning, but I didn't read anything into it. I mean, there's usually a guy or two hanging around outside my apartment building hoping to get a picture of you, but they've never bothered me before. I had no idea they thought Edward and I were...that _we_ were...ugh!" I cover my eyes, groaning.

Esme reaches over and gently takes my MacBook from my lap. Her eyes widen when she sees the article. "Bella, I'm so sorry."

I pick up my wine glass and brace myself. "Go ahead. Read it."

"We don't have to do this."

"We read the ones about you no matter how bad they are, right?" I shrug. "Why should I be exempt?"

"Because you didn't choose palace life."

"No, it just sort of threw up on me."

"Bella—"

I hold up my hand. "Please, just read it to me before I lose my shit."

So she does.

The sad thing is, the majority of it is nothing I haven't heard before. Ever since we were kids, Esme's been the pretty one. It's never bothered me because I know it's true. It's the rest of it—the pictures of me at my absolute worst, the assumption I'm sleeping with His Royal Heinous, the obvious malice toward me when I haven't done anything but get covered in princely puke and flip off some belligerent paparazzi—that's what I can't take.

"What do I do now?" I ask.

"Either stick to the treadmill or put on makeup before you run."

"You can't be—" I stop when I hear Carlisle's voice.

"Give it a few months. It'll all die down, and then you can go back. You're acting as if spending time at home is end of the world."

"It might as well be."

And that would be Edward's.

Seriously? Esme _promised_ me he wouldn't be here. I'm not ready to see him without killing him—or at least without putting on some mascara.

What the hell is wrong with me? I don't even like the man.

"Come on, Edward," Carlisle says. "Now you're just being melodramatic."

The two princes stroll through the archway into the living room, crashing my tabloid pity party.

"How can you say that? If you had any idea—" Edward rolls his eyes when he sees me. "Great!" He turns to his brother. "This is _exactly_ what I need right now."

I guess His Royal Heinous just acknowledged me.

Here we go again. Sighing, I rise to my feet. This shit is starting to get old—I swear I've done more curtsying in the past seventy-two hours than the principal dancers of the Royal Ballet. I'm so angry my left eye is twitching, but I go through the motions anyway.

_Right heel behind left foot._

_Bend knees._

_Produce saccharine smile._

_Repeat until he gets over himself._

"Good Evening, Your Royal Highness."

"You planned this, didn't you?" Edward glares at his brother. "My day hasn't sucked enough already, now I have to deal with her, too?"

"Deal with _me_? Excuse me, Sir, but do you have any idea the mess you've made of my life?"

"That's enough," Carlisle says. "Look, I don't know what's going on between the two of you—"

"Nothing!" Edward and I answer in unison.

"—and frankly, I don't care. But Esme and I have enough going on without worrying about drama between the Best Man and Maid of Honor. I don't know what's causing the tension, neither of you are leaving until you work through it."

He can't be serious.

I fold my arms across my chest. "You _cannot _keep me here."

"Really?" Carlisle laughs. "There's an old law on the books that says I can have the Palace Guard detain anyone for up to seventy-two hours without a hearing."

"But I have to work tomorrow!" I wail.

"Then you'd better not waste any time." He lets out an exaggerated yawn. "And on that note, Esme and I are going to bed. Goodnight."

I look at Esme, silently pleading with her to save me.

She mouths the words _I'm sorry_ then follows Carlisle out of the room. The door clicks shut behind them, leaving Edward and I alone—apparently indefinitely.

Since it's looking like we're really stuck here, I size Edward up as I would any adversary. He looks the least royal I've ever seen him—not at all like the man who showed up at my office in a bespoke suit. His face is unshaven, his hair messy. If that's not enough, he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt that reads _Rock is dead and paper killed it_.

He almost seems normal.

We stare each other down for about a minute before I decide I can't take it anymore.

"Oh, fuck it all," I mutter, flopping onto the sofa.

"Excuse me?"

I roll my eyes. "I said, 'Oh fuck it all, _Sir.'"_

As obnoxious as it is to address him formally, it _does_ make things easier for me. I can handle His Royal Highness, His Royal Heinous, even His Royal Vomitous—as long as he's on His Royal High Horse, he doesn't appeal to me. What I can't handle is a repeat of last night—the guarded, vulnerable look in his eyes as he asked me to stay. This time, I don't think I would be able to say no.

I'd end up hating myself even more than I hate him.

"Is something wrong, Isabella?"

"You mean other than the fact the tabloids think we're an item?"

His laughter is void of humor. "Really? That's what has your granny panties in a bunch? Do you find the thought of dating me _that _repugnant?"

"For the record, I do _not_ wear granny panties! And yes, I absolutely do. The paparazzi used to leave me alone, but thanks to your interest in me, they followed me on my run this morning."

"Eh." He plunks himself down beside me. "Most of them can use the exercise."

I lean as far away from him as I can. "This isn't funny, Sir. Thanks to them, there are very unflattering pictures of me all over the internet."

"So I've seen. How do you think I know you wear granny panties?"

"You're unbelievable—especially considering this is all your fault! They never bothered me until you showed up at my office two days ago."

He throws his palms in the air. "What? So for about an hour this morning you had to put up with what I've been putting up with my entire life? You'll have to forgive me if I'm not terribly sympathetic."

"Don't you get it? I didn't ask for this!"

Making a sound that's something between a roar and a groan, he turns his body so he's facing me. "You think_ I_ did? Goddamn it, Bella, all I ever wanted..."

The next thing I know, his hands are on my body and his mouth is on my skin. Just as I'm about to push him away, his tongue slides between my lips.

I pull him closer.

* * *

**thanks for reading.**


	8. His Royal Hash Pipe

**thanks to josh and LJ Summers**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**His Royal Hash Pipe**

* * *

**Prince Edward Did Not Drink the Koolaid...**

**But He Did Drink the Bong Water!**

**Exclusive Pictures You Have to See to Believe**

There's a reason His Royal Highness Prince Edward is our favorite. In the past few years, pictures have surfaced of the Spare to the Heir doing just about everything from snorting coke to donning inappropriate Halloween costumes. We'd thought that by now, it would be impossible for Prince Edward to shock us.

We were wrong.

The below photos show what is clearly Prince Edward drinking what appears to be bong water. That's just...yeah. It even grosses us out.

Though we're not sure exactly when these pictures were taken, the iPad on the end table in the background tells us they can't be more than two years old, making it impossible for His Royal Highness to be any younger than twenty-six. It also makes it impossible for the Palace to explain this away as a young man's university follies as they have in the past.

Perhaps another "humanitarian mission" is in order.

**COMMENTS** (showing 5 of 187)

**Lady In Waiting**

ewwwww! okay i don't care how hot he is, that's just foul. and Sourly Mallory is standing there next to him. i hope he didn't expect her to kiss him after that. Yuck!

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Look at the size of that thing! I'm amazed he could fit his mouth around it.

**Anon**

That's what she said!

**Royal Watcher 1**

Meanwhile, in Afghanistan...

**His Royal Gayness**

If he can swallow _that_ without gagging, imagine the possibilities! RAWR

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

His kiss—my god, his kiss! It's urgent and greedy, as if it's something he _needs _rather than something he's doing. I can't remember the last time kissing someone felt like this.

I don't think it ever has.

It's enough to make me forget where I am and whom I'm with, until I feel his hand slide into the back of my jeans. Reality slaps me in the face—and that's exactly what I do to him.

"Ow!" His hand flies to his cheek, covering the red mark from where I just hit him. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"I should be asking you the same thing!"

"Well..." He moves his hand away from his face and smiles. "I had to shut you up somehow."

"Hold it, Your Highness." I rest my back against the arm of the sofa and look at him in disbelief. "You kissed me _to shut me up_?"

I don't believe him for a second.

Granted, it's been a long time since I've kissed anyone—I've never been the casual hook-up type, and since my career has always taken priority over my personal life, relationships are rare. Despite the fact I don't get out much, I know the difference between a kiss from a guy who's into you and a kiss from a guy who's into what you can do for him. As much as it pains me to admit it, I have way more experience with the latter. This is why I don't mind putting dating on the backburner. There've been way too many guys pretending they want me when what they really want is a corner office at Dot Swan—or at least, that's what the more ambitious ones want. Those with less lofty aspirations just want a meal ticket. I've never let things get out of hand with an opportunist, but I've kissed enough of them to know when a guy wasn't into it.

His Royal Heinous was _definitely_ into it. It's whether that means he was into me or into getting laid that remains to be seen.

"It's kind of funny," he says. "I'm not in the habit of kissing anyone without a signed non-disclosure agreement, but you were ranting like a shrew, and though I'm a very patient person, even_ I_ can only take so much."

If he expects me to believe this, he's out of his damned mind.

"Okay, Your Highness. Let's pretend for a moment that you weren't the one talking when you decided to stick your tongue in my mouth. If you only kissed me to shut me up, why did you then proceed to shove your hand down the back my jeans?"

He shrugs. "Seemed like a good a idea at the time. I mean, you _were_ talking out of your ass."

My face heats up, and I can feel my vein pulsing in my neck. "How dare you!"

He throws back his head, laughing. "I can't believe you're getting this worked up over a handful of blog entries and a few unflattering pictures."

"Right, Your Highness. My being upset has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you assaulted me."

"_I_ assaulted _you_? Need I remind you my left cheek is currently sporting your handprint?"

"A lady has the right to defend herself, Sir."

"Against what? Because if the way you were hanging onto me is any indication, it's safe to say you were enjoying yourself."

"I...you...ugh!"

"You know what you need?" He leans back against the sofa and reaches for the front of his jeans.

For a moment, I think I'm about to become acquainted with His Royal Penis. Then his hand vanishes inside his front pocket from which he produces a small metal pipe, a lighter, and a bag of what I assume is marijuana.

"Uh, no," I tell him.

"No?"

The look on his face makes me think it's a word he's isn't used to hearing. Then again, it could be the whole proper-method-of-addressing-him thing. Calling him Sir after his tongue was in my mouth is annoying, but at least he isn't making me get up and curtsy.

"No, _Sir_."

He sighs. "I meant are you sure you don't want to smoke?"

"Yes, Sir. Anything that was recently in your trousers has no business being inside my mouth."

"Your loss," he says, laughing.

"I seriously doubt that, Sir."

With a level of efficiency that could only come from years of practice, he breaks the weed up with his fingers, packs it into the end of the pipe, then reaches for the lighter.

"Whoa," I say. "You're just going to light up here?"

His eyes narrow. "Why wouldn't I?"

"It would be rude of you, Sir."

"Is that what this is about? Don't worry; I'll smoke you out."

Not sure what he's talking about, I stare at my hands in my lap as I swing my foot back and forth.

"Ladies first," he says, offering me the pipe and the lighter.

"What does it do, Sir?"

"You mean you've never smoked?"

I shake my head. "Only the occasional cigarette."

"It will help you relax."

"I don't think anything could make me relax around you, Sir. Besides..." I gesture to the pipe. "I don't even know what to do with that."

"It's okay; I'll help you."

It's a little unsettling that the first time His Royal Perpetually High-ness behaves at all chivalrously toward me, it involves assisting me in the partaking of substances that could impair my judgment. Then again, it's not as if I'm not curious about it. To be honest, that I haven't tried weed before now is more because of lack of opportunity than anything else.

But it's being offered, so I try it.

By the time Edward and I finish smoking His Royal Hash Pipe, my throat is raw and my mouth is dry. Other than that, I feel exactly the same. Meanwhile, Edward's kicked off his shoes and moved from the sofa to the floor, where he's sitting crossed-legged with his eyes closed, drumming his fingertips against his thighs.

"Seriously, Sir?" I reach for my wine glass. "This is _it_? Shouldn't I be seeing lava lamps when I close my eyes or something?"

He looks at me and shrugs. "No one feels much of anything the first time they smoke, and if they do, it takes a while for it to kick in. Besides, we're talking about pot here—it's not as if you just shroomed."

"If no one feels anything the first time they smoke, why does anyone bother trying it a second time?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" He leans forward and pats the floor in front of him. "Come sit with me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to talk to you and I don't feel like yelling across the room."

At least he's not asking me to curtsy again. Sighing, I get up from the couch and join him on the floor.

"Much better," he says, smiling.

"So what do you want to talk about, Sir?"

He wrinkles his forehead. "Huh?"

"You said you wanted to talk to me—"

"See, it's not all bad, is it?"

"What?"

"Being here...at the Palace...with me."

"If I remember correctly, you weren't exactly thrilled with the prospect yourself."

"I meant last night. You wouldn't stay for dinner..."

I lower my eyes. I'm not sure what to say to that.

"Pretty," he mutters.

"Excuse me, Sir?"

"When you were looking down just now—your hair fell toward your face, and it was pretty."

It seems like a genuine compliment, so I treat it as such. What I don't understand is why I'm blushing.

"Thank you, Sir."

He shakes his head and sighs. "I hate being here."

"Nothing is stopping you from going back to your apartment."

"No, I mean The Westerlands in general."

"Oh."

"Do you really hate me?" His green eyes are glassed over, but that does nothing to diminish the intensity of his stare.

"Sometimes," I admit.

The look on his face makes me regret being honest.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

He starts laughing hysterically, and I can't for the life of me figure out what's so funny.

"When are you going to stop that?" he asks. "I keep waiting for you to let it go..." Still laughing, he clutches his stomach.

I don't think I'll ever be in on the joke, so in the absence of anything else to do, I pour myself another glass of wine. When I turn back to him, he's refilling his pipe.

He offers it to me. "It's up to you, but you probably shouldn't. You may not think you feel anything now, but sometimes the high can sneak up on you."

"Thank you, Sir, but I'm good."

"Under the circumstances, that's probably for the best."

I study him as he smokes. His fingers are long, his lips full. Part of me wishes he'd kiss me again, the rest of me is glad he seems to be behaving himself.

"You shouldn't let the tabloids bother you."

Okay, Your Royal Non Sequitur.

"My mother was the same way," he continues. "She'd see the headlines and get so upset...if you don't let them get to you, they have no power. "

I ignore the fact he mentioned Princess Elizabeth. I know from Esme that neither he nor Carlisle like to talk about her—all these years later, it still hurts too much.

"I'm trying to figure out what the tabloids have to do with the current topic of conversation."

"You seemed genuinely distraught earlier."

"I was."

"That's the thing—if I'd known stopping by your office would create all these problems for you, I would have waited until the next time you visited Esme to apologize to you. There's a lot I could say about the night we met—how that kind of behavior isn't normal for me, that I'd recently gotten some pretty bad news..." He shrugs.

"But you can't because I didn't sign the NDA."

"Even if you had, I don't think it would matter. For what it's worth—and I admit after everything that's happened in the past two days it's probably not worth much—I _am_ sorry."

There's something about his voice that leaves no question of his sincerity.

"Thank you," I say. "That means a lot to me."

For a while we sit there looking at each other, but this time it's different—softer. It makes me feel exposed, which makes me want to drink. Unfortunately, my glass is empty, and so is the only bottle of wine within arm's reach.

I put my hand on the coffee table and push myself to my feet. Though I wasn't dizzy before, all of sudden, balance isn't coming easily to me. I'm about to crash into the floor when I feel Edward's arms close around me.

"I don't get it." I lean my back against his chest. "I didn't drink enough to be this drunk."

"Believe me, Bella; you're not drunk."

"Then why can't I walk?"

My feet no longer touch the ground, but somehow I'm moving anyway.

"Wait. You're carrying me?"

He laughs. "You weren't having much luck standing on your own."

I can't argue with him there.

It takes me a while, but eventually I get my bearings on my surroundings. I'm not sure where I am, but this corridor is far too grand to be part of Esme's apartment.

"Where are we going?"

"To my apartment. I think it's time I put you to bed."

* * *

**I know I promised daily updates. At the time I was thinking chapters would be about 1k words, give or take a few. Now that they're getting considerably longer than that, I'm shooting for three times per week. **

**Thanks for reading. xoxo**


	9. His Royal To Do List

**thanks to detochkina and LJ Summers**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**His Royal To-Do List**

* * *

**Prince Edward Hits the Town with Lady Kate Danvers**

If there's one thing we're sure of here at Royal Bitch, it's that on the rare occasion Prince Edward actually _does_ something, he does it thoroughly. Since dumping Sourly Mallory, His Royal Hotness has been making the rounds, but something about it doesn't ring true. Though Prince Edward's other vices abound, there's never been any evidence that he would follow in his father's philandering footsteps. One would think that now Prince Carlisle's settling down, Edward would follow suit. Palace sources have always claimed Prince Edward the Ginger both idolizes and emulates his older brother.

Right. And we've seen so much evidence of this in his behavior.

But let's assume for a moment it's true—that His Royal Highness came back from his latest "humanitarian mission" a changed man. It might explain Edward's rumored romance with Not-A Swan, who despite sharing DNA with her stunning sister Esme, is not exactly one to attract male attention. Not that we're at all surprised she caught Edward's eye—if there was ever a prince likely to overindulge and try to shag the maid of honor at a Royal Wedding, it would be Prince Edward. It would make sense if the wedding weren't still several weeks away or if Edward was competing with other men for Not-a Swan's affections.

Baffled as to what Prince Valium could possibly see in her, we decided it was time for some due diligence. After we asked around a bit about, we discovered that Prince Edward is Not-a Swan's only suitor. What's more, all evidence seems to indicate she hasn't had a real boyfriend since she was an undergraduate at Princeton. It doesn't add up. Surely there would have been opportunists willing to suffer through tapping her ass with the hope of eventually tapping her bank account—even if the former is every bit as big as the latter. It begs the question: What could he possibly see in her? Now that he seems to have gotten Lady Kate Danvers's attention, his has no reason to suffer through another dull moment sister-in-law-to-be Bella. Yet our sources confirm Not-a Swan left her flat yesterday evening in a car driven by a Palace Chauffeur, and at the time this was posted, she had yet to show up for work.

**COMMENTS **(showing 10 of 652)

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Uh, yeah. Not-a Swan is NOT Prince Edward's sister-in-law to be; Esme is. When Esme and Carlisle get married, Not-a Swan and Prince Edward will be absolutely nothing to each other. Unless they're still screwing.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

In which case, knowing him, they'd still be absolutely nothing to each other.

**Palace Alice**

Bella and Prince Edward will still be together at Esme's wedding to Prince Carlisle. I see them getting married some day.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

If they do, does that mean we get to call Not-a Her Royal Highn-ass?

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

Leave it to My Narcissistic Ali-ass to start making ass jokes.

**Royal Watcher 1**

If I read this without having seen pictures of Bella, based on your description I'd think she was fat and hideous. She's not part of the Royal family, so you can't rationalize your cruelty by claiming your tax dollars support her lifestyle. What has she done to deserve this? Oh, that's right. She doesn't put on make-up before she exercises or starve herself when she's hungry.

**Lady In Waiting**

Speaking of asses, what crawled up yours?

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Where's Pal-ass Al-ass when you need her?

**Assman 11**

I need to see Not-a Swan naked before I'll feel qualified to judge. There's got to be a sex tape out there somewhere.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

No, but she did porn. Ass A. Bella was the name she used. Google it.

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

Putting me to bed _in his apartment? _

I should be angry. I should kick and scream and insist he bring me back to my sister immediately. What I shouldn't be is turned on. Except I _am_, and that pisses me off way more than His Royal Presumptuousness tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me off to his bedroom caveman style. What's going on in my pants right now makes about as much sense as his idea that I'd actually consider having sex with him. Even if his cheek wasn't still red from the last time he got fresh with me, he knows I have no intention of signing his ridiculous NDA. Thinking he's bluffing, I slide down his torso a bit so I can get a look at his face.

I stop when I feel something against my leg. It _has_ to be the pot pipe—there's no way he's sporting a hard-on. Then again, the pipe was palm-sized and this...well...isn't. I'm not sure why I shift in his arms a little to get a better feel. Maybe it's because it's been years since I've felt a penis—even a clothed one—pressed against me. Maybe knowing what's going on in his pants makes what's going on in my pants less infuriating to me. Maybe it's because if he _does _want me, that he makes his insistence I curtsy to him a non-issue. So what if he has a title? I'd have some of the power.

The second I shift in his arms a little to get a better feel, he stops walking.

Yep. Definitely _not_ the pot pipe.

Before I can decide whether or not to say something, Edward lowers me from his shoulder. Still, my feet don't touch the floor—one of his arms catches my legs while the other wraps around my back.

"Put your arm around my neck."

I do it, if no other reason than I still don't know what to say to him. Once again, we're moving.

"That's better," he says.

And it is—at least in the sense that I'm no longer being carried like a sack of potatoes, nor is there any risk of me inadvertently brushing my thigh against against his junk—the way he's angled me renders that impossible. Even though this position places less of my body against his, somehow it feels more intimate. My face is close enough to his that I can smell his shampoo and fabric softener, close enough for me to see the faded freckles beneath the stubble on his jaw. I'm close enough that's it impossible for me to delude myself into believing I'm not attracted to him physically. I'm just not sure what I want to do about it.

Let's be real—it's been a while since I've been held by anyone and, at the moment, His Royal Hardness seems to be behaving himself. So I stop thinking. I close my eyes and let myself enjoy the moment.

I don't open them until he's lowering me onto his bed.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says, turning to leave. "I'll be right back."

I don't doubt he will—probably half-naked with a condom in one hand and the NDA in another.

When he reappears, I realize I couldn't have been more wrong. Not only is he fully dressed, the only thing he's holding is a bottle of water, which he opens and hands to me.

"You should probably drink this," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

After a few gulps, the bottle is empty and my mouth feels much better.

"Thank you."

He takes the empty bottle from my hand and places it on the bedside table, then looks down at me and shrugs.

We're back to staring at each other, but this time, it's different. There's nothing cocky about his smile and I'm not sizing him up as if he were the enemy. I don't speak, but it's not part of a strategy to get the upper hand. I'm quiet because I don't know what to say to him.

Or what I want to do with him.

After a few moments, I start to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. Despite the fact I'm here under duress and somehow wound up drunk, stoned, and in your bed, I feel like you just walked me to my door after a date. Now it's that weird moment of silence when I try to decide if I want to invite you in for coffee. You know what I mean."

He shakes his head. "Actually, I don't."

"Come on, Sir. You know—when at the end of the night, a decision needs to be made about how you want things to go, and even though you had plenty of time to think about it, you still don't know what you want."

"That's never happened to me."

"I don't believe you, Your Royal Hardness."

He throws his head back, laughing.

"I don't care how poised and polished you come off making public appearances," I continue. "Privately, you must have had your share of awkward moments."

"Oh, I've had more of those than you can possibly imagine," he says, still laughing. "In fact, I think I'm having one now. But going out on actual dates?" He shrugs. "That's something I've never done."

I roll my eyes—of course he hasn't. After all, he breaks up with people with via proxy. He already has the necessary infrastructure in place; outsourcing entire relationships makes perfect sense.

"I'm not trying to say I've never had a girlfriend—just that I've never pursued someone romantically whom I didn't already know—"

"And who hasn't already signed an NDA."

"A signed NDA doesn't protect me against rejection, just tell-all books."

"You can't honestly expect me to believe women have refused to put out after signing that thing."

"You're right; I can't—at least, not until _you_ sign one. But I can tell you this: in asking a woman to sign the NDA, there's still a chance she'll refuse to sign it then go public with what it contains. Before I even approach her with it, I have to want to pursue her enough to take that risk. By the time the NDA comes out, I'm already invested."

"Except you gave me one."

He smiles. "I did, didn't I?"

He stands up and stretches his arms above his head, causing his t-shirt to ride up. His jeans sit low enough on his hips that I can see the waistband of his boxers. They're bright yellow and covered in drawings of dachshunds wearing hot-dog buns. Then he bends his elbows, and I can see some of the dark auburn hair that disappears beneath them. I expect him to start undressing—after all, regardless of his intentions toward me this _is _his room—but he doesn't.

Instead, he points to a dimmer switch on the wall beside the headboard.

"When you want to go to sleep, this will turn off the lights." He walks across the room and opens a set of double doors. "The bathroom's in here. Now before I go to bed, is there anything I can get you?"

"No thank you, Sir."

"If you need me, my room's at the end of the hall. Goodnight, Bella." He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

I could spend all night wondering what the hell just happened, but somehow sleep claims me anyway.

**-o-O-o-**

I wake up to a dry mouth, a killer headache, and a whole lot of ambivalence. Knowing I can't reason through anything before my morning coffee, I don't even try. Instead, I lie there and take in my surroundings.

It's not the kind of room I'd expect to find in a bachelor pad, let alone one belonging to Prince Edward. I've spent enough time with Esme to know that while The Queen expects areas open to the palace to remain as they were 200 years ago when Masen Palace was built, members of the Royal Family are permitted to decorate their own apartments the way they see fit. Though the sheets I slept on feel as if they're new, the rest of the room looks as if it hasn't been updated in years—that or Edward's into the whole historic hotel look. And that's the best way I can describe this room. The ornate wainscotting and tray ceiling, the brocade headboard, the panels of gold-and-white striped wallpaper surrounded by carved molding. Income notwithstanding, I've never seen anything like this in a guy's apartment. Just when I think it can't get any weirder, I notice the note on the bedside table. Again, fine linen stationery bearing His Royal Monogram, propped up between two bottles—one containing spring water, the other Excedrin.

**-o-O-o-**

_Bella,_

_I have to step out for a while, but I'll be back soon. Meanwhile, help yourself to whatever you may need. I don't have any help, but something tells me you're more than capable of fending for yourself._

_E._

**-o-O-o-**

What I need more than anything is to figure out what his game is. I wash down a fistful of Excedrin then decide to go exploring.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen aren't much different from the room I slept in last night—traditionally decorated and barely lived in. By the time I'm standing outside His Royal Bedroom, I haven't learned anything new about Edward, other than the fact he clearly hasn't spent a penny of his decorating allowance. Part of me feels guilty about snooping in his bedroom, the rest of me is too curious to care.

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but it wasn't this. The door opened into a sitting area which, besides the addition of a huge television and state-of-the-art stereo equipment, looks pretty much like the rest of the apartment. I move on to the room with his bed. Outside of the color scheme and the fact he makes his bed with hospital corners, it's not any different from where I slept in last night. On his bedside table is a MacBook and a few sheets of his monogrammed stationery, covered with what appear to be reminders. It's such a waste—hasn't he ever heard of Post-It Notes?

I feel bad about paging through them, but I can't help it. One of them lists my favorite flowers. The rest don't mean much of anything, until I get to the one on the bottom. It's a list of names—all female, all titled. The top name, Lady Kate Danvers, has a line through it. There's a section of names bracketed at the bottom with a note that reads, "Only if I'm desperate."

Seriously? He has a To-Do List of potential conquests? My eyes scan the sheet a second time. My name doesn't appear on it anywhere. I don't know whether to be angry or relieved. I'm reading it a third time when I hear Edward's voice behind me.

"Didn't expect to find you in here."

Panicked, I shove the note into the front of my jeans then turn to face him.

"I'm sorry, Sir. There weren't any towels in my bathroom, so I had to go scavenging," I say. "I hope you don't mind."

"Oh. Let me get you some."

Before he hurries into his bathroom, I manage to get a decent look at his face. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he looked disappointed. When he comes back, he hands me a stack of folded towels.

"Thank you, Sir."

I walk back to the guest room, relieved he didn't catch me snooping. I'll save working through the rest of what I'm feeling until after I have some coffee.

* * *

**Back from vacation and excited to get back to writing. Thanks for reading.**


	10. His Royal Licentiousness

_thanks to detochkina and lj summers_

* * *

**_T__he comments expressed in this chapter are not representative of my own views._**

**_ Gay and/or transgendered persons have my utmost respect and support. _**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**His Royal Licentiousness**

* * *

**Prince Edward and Not-a Swan In Whirlwind ****Romance**

Speculate no further! The relationship between our favorite royal and Esme Platt's ugly stepsister is as real as it can get.

An insider close to Not-a Swan told us, "He's very into her. Not only has he shown up to her office in person, you wouldn't believe the flower arrangements he's sent her." When asked exactly how serious their fledgling romance is, our source elaborated, "It's as serious as it gets. She's spending nights at the Palace, and he asked her to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement."

If that's not real, we don't know what is.

So why Not-a Swan? Why now?

Ever since Prince Edward returned from his latest "humanitarian mission", it's been rumored that he was called home from abroad because the Queen thinks it's high time he settled down. As far as royal wives go, Not-a Swan is the ideal candidate.

For starters, her family has already been fully vetted by Her Majesty. Any skeletons in the Platt or Swan closet would surely be out by now. Thanks to her sister, she's already a Palace insider, privy to its everyday happenings and practices and therefore well aware of what she's getting into. Even if things progress between them quickly, she won't be blindsided by what's expected of her the way Princess Elizabeth was, nor will she find life behind the Palace walls isolating. After all, she'll have her sister to keep her company.

Granted, Not-a Swan is well...not exactly a swan. But she does come with a certain pedigree. Her mother is a Grade-A MILF, her father a computer genius. In the brains department, Not-a isn't exactly a slouch herself. Despite being the boss's daughter, our sources at Dot Swan agree Not-a's rapid climb up the corporate ladder has had nothing to do with nepotism and everything to do with her own business acumen. And isn't it about time Prince Edward did something other than go on extended "humanitarian missions"? No doubt Her Majesty is hoping Not-a will have a stabilizing influence on Prince Edward.

Regardless, there's one thing we all agree on here at Royal Bitch: the two years of Princess lessons Esme is rumored to have endured will look like nothing when compared to what Masen Palace will likely require of her sister.

**COMMENTS** (showing 8 of 8)

**Lady In Waiting**

Right. If they're so serious, why was he out with Kate Danvers the other night?

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

Because he likes the cock, and we all know Lady Kate is a tranny hooker.

**His Royal Gayness**

I KNEW IT!

**Monarch Shutterly**

I call bullshit. Kate's definitely female. I got pics of her tits a few years ago when she was on the beach in France.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

I never claimed she didn't have top surgery. But when she goes to picnics, she ALWAYS brings the pork and beans.

**Assman 11**

Any pics of her ass? I'd tap that.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

Hope you're prepared to give her the reach-around.

**future royal baby mama**

ur all disgusting

**COMMENTS ON THIS POST ARE CLOSED**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

It isn't until I'm in the shower that it hits me—I have to get that list back to Edward's bedroom before he notices it's gone. That is, of course, if he hasn't already. I start to panic, then I realize no bad can come from this. The worst that can happen is that he never speaks to me again. To be honest, that'd make my life a hell of a lot easier. The last thing I need is to be crushing on a manwhore.

Except I'm not crushing on him—not really. It's just been so long since a guy with nothing to gain from being with me took an interest. Couple that with his good looks and my four-year sex drought, it's only natural that his persistence would start to crumble my resolve. I'm just glad I found that list before I became emotionally involved. Still, I should at least try to smuggle the list back to his room, if for no other reason than Esme and Carlisle's wedding will be mighty awkward if I don't.

When I get out of the shower, Esme's sitting on the bed. Her jaw drops when she sees me.

"So it _is t_rue. I can't believe you spent the night here."

"It shouldn't be _that _shocking. Carlisle said he'd have the Palace Guard detain me if I didn't, remember?"

"He was kidding."

"Great," I say, rolling my eyes. "_Now_ you tell me."

"Oh please." She waves her hand dismissively. "As if you didn't know that last night."

"I didn't know that last night! What, do you think I actually _wanted_ to spend time alone with His Royal Perpetually Highness?"

She shrugs. "Even you admit he's not bad to look at. So what happened after I went to bed? I want all the details."

"We don't have time for that right now. This morning, His Royal Vomitous left me a note saying to help myself to anything I needed. After last night, what I _really_ needed was information—"

"No, Bella," she says, shaking her head. "Tell me you didn't go snooping."

"The man kissed me then carried me off to his apartment. A little due diligence was in order."

"He kissed you?"

"Yes."

"And?" She gestures for me to continue. "Come on, you can't stop there."

"At first, it was nice. Then he shoved his hand down my pants and I slapped him. Can we talk about this later? There are more pressing matters at hand." I retrieve His Royal To-Do List from underneath my folded clothing and hand it to Esme. "I have no idea what this is, but I was holding it when he came home and found me in his bedroom. I didn't want him to know I was snooping, so I shoved it into my pants and made up some story about looking for towels. Before we do anything else, we need to figure out how to get this back into his bedroom before he notices it's missing."

After she scans the page, she hides her face in her hand and sighs. "Unbelievable."

"I know, right? A list of potential conquests? What kind of guy objectifies women like that? Meanwhile, he claims he only pulls out the NDA when he's already into someone. If that's true, then why aren't I on the list?"

She gives me the side-eye.

"What?"

"This list isn't what you think it is," she says.

"Right. That's what you're always saying about the Royal Family, but you never bother to explain how I'm wrong."

"Okay." She slides off the bed onto her feet. "I'll take care of this."

"But what—?"

"I said, I'll care take of it," she says, walking to the door.

Her voice is clipped, and I can tell she's pissed off.

"Wait!"

She turns to look at me when I call out to her.

"Before you go..." I sigh. "Thank you."

"I'm not doing this for you." She opens the door and steps out into the hallway. "Your laptop and purse are out in the living room. If the world is fair, right now Edward's going through your browser history."

"Come on, Esme. You used to do stuff like this all the—"

"I'll talk to you later." She holds up her hand to me then calls down the hallway, "Edward? Would you come for a walk with me in the garden?"

"Esme..." I stop when I realize I'm alone.

Apparently, even heavy palace doors can be slammed.

**-o-O-o-**

People do all sorts of crazy things when they're feeling guilty. My grandmother used to pray the rosary. My father writes five-digit checks to charity. I prefer to atone by doing something nice for the wronged party. From what I can tell, there's only one thing I could do for Edward that he can't do for himself. I don't care how bad I feel about going through his stuff—there's no way I'm having sex with His Royal Licentiousness. However, he told me in the note he left this morning that he didn't employ any household help. So once I'm dressed and my hair is reasonably tamed, I strip the linens from the bed I slept in and cart them to the laundry room, using the time it takes for them to wash and dry to catch up on some work. As soon as I open my laptop, I'm bombarded with emails from Heidi asking why I haven't been answering my phone. I go to call her back, only to realize I don't _have_ my phone.

I retrace my steps. The last time I used it was last night in Esme's apartment.

Seriously?

When I'm not in the office, I live on that thing. Had I really gone over fourteen hours without noticing it was gone? I know I must have, but it's still hard to believe. What's even more shocking is that I don't miss it. As weird as this morning has been, it was still nice not feeling tied to the office. I can't remember the last time I went this long without doing anything work-related.

After I get the sheets out of the dryer, I make the bed in the guest room, all the while marvelling at how freeing it feels not to be in a panic over meetings and deadlines. When the pillows are fluffed to my satisfaction, I make my way through the Palace to Esme's apartment.

As many times as I've visited Esme here since moving back to The Westerlands after grad school, I never paid much attention to the Palace itself, except to note that it was very large and very stodgy. While the public areas are certainly grand enough, the corridor separating Edward's apartment from Carlisle and Esme's is a bit rundown. Sure, there are marble floors, twenty-foot ceilings, and enormous portraits of dead royals hung in gilded frames, but there are also patches of peeling wallpaper and chipped paint. Now that the morning sun is pouring through the enormous leaded-glass windows, it's obvious the velvet drapes are more than a little faded. How easily people buy into the mythology of royalty when, in all truth, the only thing differentiating Masen Palace from any other aging mansion is its name.

No one answers the first time I knock on Esme's door—or the second or the third, for that matter. Figuring she must still be outside with Edward, I try the knob. It turns and the door opens. I'm pretty sure I know where my phone is; I'm just going to run in, grab it, and run out.

When I hear Edward and Esme's muffled voices, I freeze in place.

"I can't believe you had Bella do your dirty work for you," Edward says.

Great. Even though I have a legitimate reason for being here—I _do_ need my phone, after all—in the context of what happened this morning, Esme's going to think I came with the express purpose of eavesdropping. I can't win.

Why can't she have a butler like the rest of the Royal Family?

"How I found out doesn't matter," she says. "I can't believe you! You promised me you wouldn't..."

"Don't cry, Esme." His voice is gentle, soothing.

"You said it wouldn't change anything if we...and now..." She blows her nose.

"Shush now. It'll all work out. We'll be okay—you'll see."

"But will we be happy?" she asks. "Both of us, I mean?"

"You know I won't be as long as I'm stuck here."

"And that's all my fault."

"Look at me, Esme... Don't you dare blame yourself."

I don't know what the hell is going on between them, but I know what it sounds like. I may not think Edward has any scruples, but Esme would _never_ go there with her future brother-in-law. At least, I like to think she wouldn't. Even if she has seemed like a stranger to me lately, she's never given me reason to question her devotion to Carlisle.

There's one thing I do know—if she sees me, she'll be furious I listened to even a moment of her conversation with Edward. As quietly as I can manage, I tiptoe out of the apartment.

I'll worry about getting my phone back later.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Though I do my best to answer all of your reviews, inevitably I miss some. Know that I read and appreciate every one. **


	11. His Royal Penis

thanks to deotchkina, lj summers, and josh.

_******Royal trivia: Princess Diana called Prince Charles 'Sir' up until the day he proposed to her. **_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**His Royal Penis**

* * *

**All Speculation Ends Here:**

**Exclusive Photos of Prince Edward's Penis**

Apparently, Royals really _are_ just like everybody else—when you've gotta go, you've gotta go. Though none of us here at Royal Bitch Dot Net have ever been on a 170-foot yacht, we've got to imagine they have bathrooms. It begs the question—what was Prince Edward doing pissing off the deck?

Though in the photos it appears Prince Edward is slightly larger than average, it's believed that His Royal Highness is a shower not a grower. Rumor has it that embarrassment over his penis size is what compels him to require signed Non-Disclosure Agreements from any and all women in whom he has the slightest romantic interest. In fact, a source close to Bella "Not-a" Swan tells us Prince Edward presented Esme Platt's ugly half-sister with legal documents less than twenty-four hours after meeting her. Tell-all books written by Princess Elizabeth's former lovers notwithstanding, we have to wonder what His Royal Highness is trying to hide.

**COMMENTS** (showing 8 of 1298)

**Anon**

Eh. Still bigger than his father.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Those pictures of Prince John's penis weren't real. These on the other hand...wow.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

The pics of his father's cock were absolutely real! A friend of mine took them. Sometimes he still has nightmares about all the hair.

**His Royal Gayness**

Even if it doesn't get much longer, it's still thick and juicy. I'd love to have that in my mouth! Yum!

**Lady In Waiting**

I'm never swimming in the Atlantic Ocean again.

**Assman 11**

He holds it weird.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

Didn't you know? Royalty holds their johnsons with their pinkies out. At least, that's what they do when there's no one around to hold it for them. "The Royal Penis is clean, Your Highness."

**Loves Me Some Fat Dick**

I'll clean it for him!

**-o-O-o-**

"I have to say, your facility comes highly recommended. The security at the entrance to the parking garage was impressive and that I can drive right into the building is a huge plus for me. It makes it easier to dodge the paparazzi. After my sister announced her engagement, I had _maybe_ one or two paps camped outside my flat. Now I can't even go for a run without being followed."

I recognize my voice; it's what I'm saying that seems unreal to me. My life has actually come to this. As annoying as it is that I have to join an exclusive health club to have any chance of working out without being photographed, I have to admit this one is impressive. Angela, the membership director showing me around, has been discreet and accommodating. Just as I'm thinking this place is too good to be true, she leads in me into the weight room.

I stand dumbfounded by the door, not able to fully process what I'm seeing. It's not His Royal Heinous's presence that surprises me, or even that he's drenched in sweat, wearing track pants and a t-shirt that reads, "Finish your beer. There are sober children in India." It's that seeing him as he is now—standing behind a weight bench, laughing as he spots a guy who's lifting—he almost seems normal.

Too bad I know better.

"Come on," Edward says. "I need three more—unless you're willing to admit that IED got the best of you."

With what appears to be great effort, the guy on the bench completes three additional reps.

Edward smiles. "Now _that _had to feel pretty good."

"If you say so, Sir. I think I'm ready to call it a day."

Sir? Seriously? His Royal Heinous won't even let his workout buddies use his first name?

"Probably smart. You don't want to overdo it. Don't worry; I'll take care of the weights." Edward turns to watch his friend leave and notices me standing by the door.

He goes from smiling to poker-faced in less than a second.

I'm not sure what to say to him, but it doesn't matter because I'm not supposed to speak until spoken to anyway. The way he's looking at me makes me feel small, so I do what etiquette expects of smallfolk in the presence of royalty—I put my right heel behind my left foot, bend my knees, and keep my mouth shut.

He remains silent.

As uncomfortable as this is, part of me is glad I ran into him here. I haven't seen him since the morning I snooped in his apartments, and though it's only been a few days, the more time that passes the more awful I feel. Not only does this chance meeting get it over with, the fact we're not alone saves me from what could otherwise be a nasty confrontation.

"Isabella," he says finally. "I don't believe I've ever seen _you_ here before."

"No, Your Royal Highness. I've never been one for health clubs, but now that running has become...well, somewhat problematic for me..."

I'm not easily intimidated. I can't be; I'm the boss's daughter in a male-dominated industry. There are far too many people who would be happy to exploit any vulnerability on my part, and stumbling over words is definite sign of weakness. But something about Edward's expressionless gaze makes me feel like pond scum and, though I know what I want to say, I can't seem to make my mouth cooperate. It's not because it's obvious he's angry with me—I'm well aware of the fact that I've more than earned his ire—it's because for reasons I don't fully understand, I find myself wishing he wasn't.

Thankfully, Angela steps in. "Ms. Swan is thinking about becoming a member, Your Royal Highness. I'm giving her a tour of the facilities."

"Is that so?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes, Sir."

"In that case, I'd be happy to show you around." He turns to Angela. "I'm sure you don't mind."

"Not at all, Sir. I'll be in my office if you need anything." She gives me a discreet wink as she leaves.

I stare after her in disbelief. Seriously? Does the entire world actually believe he and I are an item? Sighing, I turn back to Edward. He's glaring at me, his face every bit as hard to read as it was before.

Here we go again.

I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. It's our usual game, but this time I'm too afraid of losing to care if I win. I take a deep breath and remind myself that while I might have gone to business school instead of charm school, there's one thing I can do every bit as gracefully as my sister.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

He rolls his eyes. "Are you crazy?"

Before I can ask him what he's talking about, he grabs me by the hand and pulls me out of the weight room into the corridor. His grip is tight and his pace fast; that I'm still dressed for work makes keeping up with him a bit of a challenge. We pass a room of cardio equipment and two pools before my curiosity gets the better of me.

"Where are you taking me?"

He says nothing, but it doesn't matter. The sign on the wall answers on his behalf.

"Uh uh. No, Sir. When Angela said you could show me around, I don't think she realized the men's locker room was on the agenda."

Just as I'm about to bolt in the other direction, he opens the door to a steam room.

"Hello?" he calls from the hallway.

When no one answers, he drags me inside with him. I stand there seething as he pulls a key from his pocket and locks the door behind us.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Sir?"

"I should be asking you the same thing! What the hell were you thinking, starting a conversation like that where someone could overhear it?"

"As if this is any better!"

"This_ is_ much better—it's private. Assuming you refrain from your typical shrewish ranting and keep your voice down, we don't have to worry about transcripts of our conversation ending up online."

"You can't be serious. It's..." I glance at the thermometer on the wall. "110 degrees in here! My clothes are already sticking to me. It's only a matter of time before one of us passes out."

He opens the door and steps out into the hallway. Before I can make a run for it, he tosses a couple of towels at me and locks the door again.

"Problem solved."

"No, Your Highness. I require more than two bath towels to feel decent."

His smile is pure evil. "What do you mean two? One of them is for me."

If we weren't in a steam room, I'm fairly sure the smoke coming from from my ears would be visible. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There's no way I'm giving him the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool—even if I _am_ drenched in sweat.

"Come on," he continues. "You can't expect me to remain fully clothed in here? You said yourself it was only a matter of time before one of us passes out."

I just glare at him.

"What, are you disappointed I'm bothering with a towel? I thought you might be." He sighs. "You realize this is no one's fault but your own, right? Had you signed the NDA, I'd have no problem letting you see my...er...scepter."

I roll my eyes. "As if I haven't already seen it."

"You know, if you'd just say what you need to say, we could be out of here by now. But once again, you seem determined to make this harder than it needs to be. Bitch bitch bitch, whine whine whine whine. This is how you apologize?"

After all this, I think he owes me one, but I'm not going to argue with him. I just want to get the hell out of here.

"I'm sorry I snooped in your apartment, Your Highness. There. I said it. Now would you give me the goddamned key so I can leave?"

"Gladly." He retrieves the key from his pocket and tosses it at me. "Catch."

Except I don't catch it. The key flies past my head and falls between the slats on the seat of the bench behind me—the slats that are too close together for me to reach between them. I drop to my knees to try to get under the bench, but I can't; the bench is built into the wall.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter.

"What?"

"The key! It fell down inside the bench." I rise to my feet and start banging on the door. "Help!"

"Whoa, let's not get ahead of ourselves." He comes up behind me and grabs my hands, flattening them against the frosted-glass wall. "Think about this for a second. We're in the men's locker room, remember? Any club member who hears you is going to wonder what you were doing in here with me in the first place. If you're okay with giving the tabloid press even more reason to harass you, bang away. They hound me no matter what, so I don't care one way or the other. But if you don't want this getting out, the best thing to do is wait until closing time and yell when we hear a janitor."

I sigh. As much as I hate the thought of being stuck with him for the next few hours, I hate the alternative more. Defeated, I back away from the door and plunk myself down on the bench.

"Here." He turns to the controls on the wall and shuts off the steam. "It won't be comfortable, but we won't suffocate—and the sooner you get out of those clothes, the better."

I snort. "Not gonna happen, Sir."

"Suit yourself." He starts to pull his shirt over his head.

At the first flash of his skin, I turn my body so I'm facing the wall. "You aren't...I mean..."

"What happened to all your bravado? The way you're acting, you'd think you were a skittish virgin who's never seen a man naked."

Just like that, he pushes me over the edge. I cover my face with my hands so he won't see me cry, but it's a wasted effort. The floodgates open, and seconds later I'm a blubbering mess. Of course I feel weird seeing him naked—I'm physically attracted to him, and I hate myself for it. So I sit here, even hotter than I was when we first came in but too scared of what I'm setting myself up for to take off any of my clothes. I'm still struggling with what to do about this when I feel his hands in my hair.

"Don't worry," he says in a whisper. "This isn't sexual. I know I've taken liberties with you, but I do hope you trust me on this. I'd never forgive myself if you allowed yourself to become ill out of fear I'd take advantage of the situation." He gathers my hair together and rests it on one of my shoulders before tugging on the collar of my suit jacket. "Off with this."

My muscles tense up as he pulls the jacket down my arms and off my body, but I don't try to stop him.

"There," he says. "That's got to feel better, doesn't it?"

I nod, still facing away from him. I hold my breath, expecting him to start unbuttoning my blouse. Part of me even wants him to.

Except he doesn't. He wraps his hand around my ankle and slides one shoe off, then the other.

"Come here," he says, tugging on my foot.

I slowly turn my body to face him. He's kneeling on the floor in front of me—barefoot and shirtless, yes, but still wearing his track pants.

My eyes focus on his chest. For a pothead, he sure is ripped. Who am I kidding? He's ripped for an Olympic swimmer. All of a sudden, it's even hotter in here than it was when I still had on my jacket and shoes.

"Breathe, Bella." With his hands cupping my face, he brushes his thumbs across my cheeks. "I get that you don't trust me. I'm going to yell for help."

The last thing I need is more media attention.

"No!"

"Sweetheart, you can't sit in a steam room wearing wool pants." He puts one of the towels on the bench beside me, pushes himself to his feet, and moves to the other side of the room, facing away from me. "I'm going to stand over here with my eyes closed, and I won't open them until you tell me."

I'm trembling as I peel my clothing from my body. Almost immediately, I start to feel better. When I'm down to my bra and underpants, I wrap the towel around my body. I take a deep breath and brace myself for whatever's coming next.

"Okay."

* * *

**Originally, I wasn't going to end this here, but the chapter was getting enormous and I didn't want to put off updating any longer. Don't worry—there's a whole lot more steam room to come, and it shouldn't be too long until I post it seeing the bulk of it is already written. In the meantime, I'll send teasers in review replies.**

**xoxo.**

**C.**


	12. His Royal Sweatiness

thanks to detochkina, lj summers, and josh

and to writingbabe, for recommending this fic to her readers

extra shout-out to wrong13, who inspired a bit in this chapter

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**His Royal Sweatiness**

* * *

**Prince Edward Sues Sourly Mallory for Breach of Contract**

**Photos of the Royal Penis in Clear Violation of Confidentiality Agreement**

It was the piss seen all around the world. By now, everyone is familiar with the recently-surfaced photos of Prince Edward standing on the deck of a yacht, penis in hand. The complaint filed by His Royal Highness asserts that those photos were taken by none other Lauren Mallory, his former flame, and that their subsequent leak was a direct violation of the Non-Disclosure Agreement she signed prior to becoming his girlfriend. (That's right—the word 'leak' is used to describe what happened to photos of Prince Edward, well, taking a leak. We couldn't stop giggling, either.)

It's expected they'll come to an out-of-court settlement, with any awarded damages being donated to charities devoted to helping penises less fortunate.

**COMMENTS **(showing 6 of 387)

**Palace Alice**

I KNEW she wasn't any good.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

So in other words, he's pissed that we know he pisses. OUTSTANDING.

**HRH Princess Edward**

Is it true penises look ten pounds heavier in pictures?

**His Royal Gayness**

That's ten inches longer.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Paybacks are a bitch. NDA or not, he should have known she'd be out for blood. I mean, come on. He had his BODYGUARD dump her for him, for piss sake.

**Lady In Waiting**

I thought the pics were flattering.

* * *

After what seems like forever, he turns around.

Even though all the important bits are covered, I'm still nervous. Part of me thinks he's going to make fun of me—not because of anything he's said or done, but because the entire world seems to think I don't measure up, that there's no way he finds me attractive. I'm too plain. I don't dress well enough. My eyes are dull. My butt is big. As much as I pretend hearing this stuff doesn't bother me, it does—and that he's standing there just staring at me doesn't help.

Just when I decide I can't take another second of this, he crosses the room and sits on the bench behind where I'm standing.

"That has to feel a bit better," he says.

I plunk myself down on the bench beside him, shrugging. Physically, he's right. But I've only gotten out of my clothes in front of one other guy, and then it was in the dark and as a precursor to sex. In all the time we dated, that guy never once looked at me the way Edward had a moment ago. I fold my arms across my chest and stare down at where the straps of my plain white cotton bra peek out from underneath my towel. Maybe I'm reading him wrong. I mean, I'm not even wearing cute underwear.

"Are you okay?"

I sit straight up and whip my head around to look at him. "Yes, Sir. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," he says, laughing. "You _are_ stuck here. And you're with me..."

It takes everything in me to keep my eyes on his face, but I can't, and almost of their own accord, they start to drift downward, stopping when they get to his lap.

I'm not going to lie. When I got into work this morning and Heidi told me pictures of His Royal Penis were all over the internet, I did a Google search the moment I sat down at my desk. As luck would have it, the photos were still on the screen when a guy from IT came to my office to fix my printer. Instead he hightailed it to Human Resources. I'd never been so grateful for nepotism.

Edward clears his throat, and I know I'm busted. Panicked, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Your pants are sticking to you, Sir."

He shrugs. "Given where we are, that's not a huge a surprise."

"You can't be very comfortable."

"Better me than you."

"I know I didn't react well before when you said you were going to get undressed—"

"Didn't react well? Now there's an understatement. You had a hysterical crying fit."

"—but I don't want you to suffer on my account. If you want to take them off, Sir, take them off."

"I want to, but I won't."

"Let me guess—because I didn't sign the NDA." I sigh. "I understand why you wouldn't trust me. I went through your stuff and I know how that looks. But after you kissed and put me to bed in your guestroom, I just...I can't figure out what you want from me. You could have anyone you want, and I don't know myself when I'm around you..."

He holds up his hand. "Wait. Esme told me that was part of a reconnaissance mission _she_ sent you on."

"No, Sir. She only said that to cover for me. For what it's worth, I've felt awful about it ever since."

"Then how did she get her hands on that list?"

"I asked if she'd help me sneak it back into your room before you noticed it was missing. Even though you knew I'd been snooping, I didn't want you to think I took it to sell you out. I panicked when you found me in your bedroom, and you looked so disappointed."

"I was, but not because I realized what you were up to."

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

"Anyway," I continue, "I am genuinely sorry. And it truly didn't occur to me the weight room was a bad place to apologize."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

"May I ask you a potentially uncomfortable question, Sir?"

He laughs. "Sure, why not? We're already drowning in our own sweat."

"Earlier you asked if I wanted a transcript of our conversation to end up online. Has that actually happened to you?"

"Not to me, no. But it has to my father."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't know."

He studies my face for a moment, then shakes his head.

"What?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"You must live in a cave or something."

"No, I just don't read the gossip blogs—at least, I didn't until they dubbed my sister 'Not-Today Esme'."

"You know, all things considered, the tabloids have been decent to Esme—way better than we thought they'd be. When she and Carlisle first met, he was sure she'd decide being with him wasn't worth losing her privacy. As much as we try to buffer her from all that, we can't protect her from everything. As bad as it is for her, it could be worse. It's not as if they're calling her Princess Prozac like they did my mother, or even Not-a Swan."

I hold up my hand. "I don't want to talk about it, Sir. Not with you. The last time this came up in conversation, you got angry, we both yelled, and then you kissed me..."

"And we both know how awful _that _was for you," he says, rolling his eyes.

"That didn't come out the way I wanted it to."

"You don't want a repeat performance. It's okay; I understand."

"No! I mean _yes._ Shit." I cover my face with my hands and sigh. "I meant that I don't want to offend you again, Sir, and yelling doesn't accomplish anything..."

I've never been much for crying. More a doer than a feeler, I far prefer to channel that energy into something productive. Even as a child, Esme would cry while I'd focus on fixing whatever it was that made her upset. But here—with nothing to distract me from His Royal Heinous and how he makes me feel—once again, I can't seem to stop the tears.

"I'm sorry, Sir. This isn't me. I don't expect you to believe me when I tell you I've cried more in the past hour than I have in the past decade, but it's true. It's just that I feel like my life has spiraled completely out of my control, and all of this is so new to me..."

"May _I_ ask _you_ a potentially uncomfortable question?"

I shrug. "Well, like you said, we're already drowning in our own sweat..."

"Are you a virgin?"

"What? No." Even though I'm still crying, I start to laugh. I lean back and search his face for evidence he's kidding.

If anything, he seems uncharacteristically earnest—and it pisses me off.

I'm twenty-seven years old. He fished condoms out of my purse. Why the hell would he think I've never had sex? He couldn't possibly share the tabloid opinion about me being _that _undesirable. Then again, I wasn't even on his list—not even under his only-if-I'm-desperate category.

"No!" I repeat, a bit more vehemently. "You can ask my sister."

"It's okay; I believe you."

"Seriously, Sir? Why would you even think that?"

"You said today was the first time you cried in ten years—and it happened once at the thought of me undressing, and again when talking about our kiss. Then you said this was all so new to you—"

"I was talking about living in a fishbowl! You know, until I met you, I didn't have these problems. Bloggers didn't make fun of my clothing, and paps didn't follow me around town snapping pictures only to post them online with big red arrows pointing to my flaws. I didn't delude myself into believing I was as pretty as Esme, but I always felt good about myself. Now..." I'm crying too hard to continue.

As angry as I am with him, I don't fight when he pulls me into his arms. For a while, he rocks me back and forth, whispering an occasional, "Sh" as he strokes my hair. It isn't until I stop crying that he speaks.

"I didn't mean to imply anything when I asked if you were a virgin. You were freaking out, and I couldn't figure out why. I hate that knowing me comes at such high cost. I know the media attention you're getting is all my fault, that the press is especially brutal to you. I wish you'd realize it has nothing to do with you. To them, you're an extension of me, and I'm fair game. The crazy thing is that they're actually monarchists. It's why you almost never see controversial photos of my dad or Carlisle—or even your sister, for that matter. Those pictures of me that surfaced this morning? They also had shots of my brother's penis, along with your sister's breasts. Those were returned to Masen Palace out of respect. As they told my secretary, 'It's hard to take a Head of State seriously once you've seen him naked.'

"But the tabloid press still wants to make money, so I'm the obvious choice. Exploiting me doesn't damage the monarchy; everyone knows the chances of me ever being king are slim to none. I'm just the insurance policy, the spare to the heir. As far as they're concerned, I have all of the privilege and none of the duty. They think I earn my keep by being their fodder." His arms tighten around me as he sighs. "If they only knew."

"How exactly _do_ you earn your keep?"

I regret my words as soon as I say them. Panicked, I pull away from him so I can see his face. I expect him to be offended, but if anything, he appears amused.

"You don't know?"

I shake my head.

"Funny, I thought Esme would have told you. I'm a Captain in Her Majesty's Army, and until three weeks ago when my grandmother pulled me out of active duty, I was serving in Afghanistan."

* * *

**Next chapter, we pick up right where we left off. Same deal as last chapter—leave a review, and I'll send a teaser. **

**Thanks for reading. **

**xoxo,**

**C**


	13. His Royal Braveness

**thanks to detochkina and LJ Summers.**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**His Royal Braveness**

* * *

**Exclusive!**

**Prince Edward and Bella "Not-a" Swan Are More Torrid Than Ever**

**And Here's Why**

It's without a doubt the most unlikely match of the decade. What His Royal Highness Prince Edward could possibly see in Esme Platt's plain little sister has been the source of much conjecture. A Masen Palace insider gave us the exclusive scoop—and it's better than anything we could have come up with. Apparently, she cured him of his terrifying fear of responsible people.

Spit your beer out onto your keyboard? Yeah. That's exactly how we reacted here at Royal Bitch.

According to our source, "His Royal Highness has never reacted well to the idea of toiling away at a profession, and being around productive members of society only aggravates it further. It goes back to when His Royal Highness finished university and arrived at the Royal Military Academy for Officer Candidate School. Less than six hours into orientation, he became so panicked that medics had to remove him from base. That's how intensely he fears people who work for a living. It was easier for him to bear the shame of being the first male issue of the Masen Dynasty not to serve in the military than face his fear head on."

What happened that day is legendary. Who by now hasn't heard all about how after giving a press conference about how much he couldn't wait to join his fellow countrymen in Iraq, His Royal Highness spent five minutes in fatigues only to have a massive anxiety attack and outbreak of hives? Who doesn't remember the Royal Family's lame explanation? A spokesperson for Masen Palace claimed the unfortunate incident was caused by Prince Edward's well-known polyester allergy, but no one made any attempt to secure uniforms made entirely of cotton. Instead, the Prince was given an Epi pen and sent on a humanitarian visit.

Our source went on to explain, "Isabella Swan has changed all this. She doesn't freak him out the way other people with jobs do. He started off slowly, only being around her. After all, she's where she is in life because of her father, and he can certainly relate to that. After experimenting with various sessions of carefully controlled exposure to other employed people, His Royal Highness felt confident enough to visit Isabella at her place of employment. He didn't stay long, but his visit was without incident. Since then he's visited Dot Swan's national headquarters many times. On his most recent excursion, he didn't even have to pop a benzo. It's a huge relief to him, the idea that in time he may be able to stop being a drain on our country's resources. And he owes it all to her."

Okay then.

We take journalistic ethics very seriously here at Royal Bitch. Being the first with a story is important to us, but we'd never risk our reputation by posting something we weren't 98% sure was true. More than that, we don't like to get sued. Though the Royal Military Academy incident is well-known and seemed to corroborate our source's claims, we remained unconvinced and hit the photo archives. Surely there are pictures of Prince Edward standing there in one of the bespoke suits he wears around town surrounded by smallfolk doing their jobs. Finding one would blow a huge hole in the Not-a Swan-saved-him-from-himself theory our usually reliable Palace insider seems desperate for us to believe. Much to our surprise, we could only find one—a pap photo snapped of him entering Dot Swan last week.

"Her Majesty says she's a keeper," our source said, "and if he does anything to sabotage this relationship, she'll cut off his allowance."

We're thinking an engagement is imminent.

**COMMENTS** (showing 9 of 897)

**swatchdogs-N-dietcokeheads**

LMAO. I 'd completely forgotten about the Royal Military Academy thing. Does this guy have any redeeming qualities?

**His Royal Gayness**

You must not have seen the pics of his penis. YUM

**Boners for Bomer**

Give it up, eldergay. Just because Prince Edward is closeted, and we ALL know he is, he'd still never go anywhere near your geriatric ass.

**Lauren M**

I could have sworn Edward was allergic to latex, not polyester. Hmm.

**Lady In Waiting**

You actually fell for that line? LMAO. Guys only say that so they don't have to wear rubbers. Hope His Royal Penis didn't give you His Royal Herpes.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

I see you there, Troll E. McCavetroll, pretending to be Sourly Mallory. You're not fooling anyone except Lady In Waiting, and that's hardly an accomplishment. Despite her valuable insight into the male mind, we all know she's not the sparkliest jewel in the royal scepter.

**Lady In Waiting**

OMG Prince Edward has a bedazzled Prince Albert? Wouldn't that tear up your vag?

**Anony**

Prince Edward's polyester allergy is total bullshit. There are pics of him attending a match in the Nether Regions wearing a football jersey. I have the same one. It's 100% polyester.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

I think Anony means The Netherlands. Prince Edward doesn't wear ANYTHING when visiting the Nether Regions. He's allergic to latex, remember? And don't worry, Lauren. I'm sure it's only a cold sore.

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

He didn't just say...I mean..._what_?

"If your jaw drops any farther, Bella, I might have to take it as an invitation."

I close my mouth, gnashing my teeth together with an embarrassingly loud clack. He throws his head back and laughs this rich, hearty laugh that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's real, it's mesmerizing, and for a moment, all I do is sit there and listen.

Then I realize he's doing it at my expense—and I'm livid.

"You know, Sir, lying to me is one thing. But lying to me when I'm naked? Not only is it cruel, but it's completely unforgivable."

"First of all, you're not naked. Secondly, whether or not you have clothes on doesn't matter. I wouldn't lie to you, period."

"Oh, I believe you—just like I'm sure Her Majesty's Army doesn't mind if an officer takes a few months off every once in a while to go on..." I curl my fingers into quotation marks. "...humanitarian missions."

He stops laughing.

"Seriously, Bella? This? From _you_?" He folds his arms across his chest and rests his back against the wall perpendicular to the bench. "You of all people should know you can't believe a word of what you read."

I know he's right. What's more, I _want _to believe him. If he's telling the truth, it means he has at least one redeeming quality, and I can stop hating myself for being so attracted to him.

Because I am _so_ attracted to him—and I wish more than anything I wasn't.

"My disbelief has nothing to do with what I've read, Sir. The night we met, not only did you reek of pot, but you were so drunk you threw up on me. If that's not behavior unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman, I don't know what is."

"I _knew_ you'd bring that up. You know, at first your attitude was what made me like you. I couldn't stop thinking about how great it was to _finally_ meet someone who was both attractive and completely unimpressed with my title. But the more time I spend with you, the more convinced I become that underneath it all, you're really just a hypocritical bitch."

My body temperature increases exponentially, and my eye starts to twitch from the massive amount of effort I'm putting into not throttling him. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I don't speak until I feel confident that I will remain calm and not raise my voice above a normal, conversational volume.

"Let me get this straight. I'm a hypocritical bitch for being angry you threw up on me?"

"No. You're a bitch for refusing to accept my sincere apology for throwing up on you, you're a bitch for reminding me I threw up on you every chance you get, and you're a hypocrite because we both know that if I dared to react to your violation of my privacy the same way you've reacted to a tiny bit of vomit, you'd think I was a spoiled, self-entitled asshole. I'm willing to own my mistakes; I wouldn't have shown up at your office the next day if I wasn't. If that wasn't enough for you, too bad. I refuse to debase myself by groveling."

Fuck not yelling.

"_You _refuse to debase yourself? Isn't that precious! You want to know what's debasing, Sir?" I hurl the word _Sir_ at him as if it were an insult. "Having to do this..." I rise from the bench, stomp my right foot behind my left heel, and bend my knees. "...each and every time I see you. You know what else is debasing? Your insistence I address you using a title you've done nothing to earn. Let me tell you something I'm sure no one else will ever have the balls to tell you: sincerity and forced genuflection are incompatible. If you're going for one, you have to forgo the other..."

He rises from the bench and moves toward me. His wide-eyed stare is intense, but I can tell he isn't angry—the corner of his mouth is twitching as if he's fighting a smile.

"Don't stop on my account," he says.

"I lost my train of thought."

"That's not all you lost."

Before I can ask him what he's talking about, he's picking a towel up off the floor. This is when I realize I'm standing here wearing nothing but my see-through white underwear. Right away, I hide my nipples with one of my arms, and my face with the hand of the other. A second or two later, the absurdity of the situation hits me.

As I lower my arms to my sides, all I can do is laugh.

"I should just give it up. I mean, what's been seen can never be unseen, right? Not that it matters, Sir, but when did I—"

"When you stood up to curtsy."

I'm giggling as I roll my eyes. "Figures. No good ever comes from that."

"I disagree."

"Heh. You would." I return to the bench, sighing. "When we get out of here, do you think you could forget..." I gesture to my body. "...this?"

"No," he says, sitting beside me.

"What do you mean,_ no_?"

"No, I don't think I could forget seeing your body. What's more, I don't think I want to."

I study his face. "You aren't lying, are you?"

"Bella, I've _never_ lied to you."

There's something about his eyes that makes me believe him. I take a moment to think about everything he's told me since we've been in here. As hard as I try, there's one thing I can't seem to wrap my mind around.

"So you're really in the army?"

"Yes," he says, nodding. "Why is this so hard to believe?"

"It isn't. It's just..._shit_. I don't know how I can say this without offending you."

"Just say it. I won't be offended."

"Okay. So I understand why you wouldn't want anyone to know you were in Afghanistan—I can only imagine the security issues that would create. What I don't get is why you'd let the entire world think you're a fuck-up?"

"Best cover ever, isn't it?"

"I guess. But was it really necessary?"

"It was if I wanted to see action. Look, every man in my family does _some_ kind of military service. It usually goes something like this: After university, we attend Officer Candidate School. Upon graduation, we're given very safe and very boring desk jobs here in The Westerlands. We do absolutely nothing remarkable but are awarded medals anyway so we have shiny things to put on our uniforms on special occasions.

"When it was time for me to join the army, I wanted no part of that. We had troops in Iraq, and I asked my father what would be involved in me joining them. My grandmother met with the Commanding Generals, and they decided I could go as long as my family was willing to foot the bill for the three members of the Secret Police who'd have to go with me.

"Less than twelve hours after the Palace sent out the press release, Al-Qaeda had a bounty on my head. As long as Al-Qaeda knew I was over there, the troops serving with me would be in too much risk. But if no one knew I was even in the army..."

"Wow."

He laughs. "Could you try not to look so astonished?"

"Sorry. It's not that I don't believe you, I just see you so differently now."

"I'm glad. Anyway, it's because everyone thinks I'm a fuck-up that I've been able to do two tours of duty in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. As far I'm concerned, it was worth it."

I can't resist the urge to tease him. The words that come out of my mouth aren't new, but this time, everything about them is different.

"You know, lying to me is one thing. But lying to me when I'm naked?" I shake my head. "Unforgivable."

"Ah, but you aren't naked." He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. "I just wish you were."

Our lips are about to touch when the door flies open.

"Your Royal Highness? Are you in here?" Angela freezes when she sees us, her face two parts shock to one part panic. "I..uh..sorry!" She vanishes as quickly as she appeared.

I'm still in Edward's arms, and neither of us makes any move to change this.

I feign annoyance. "You didn't make _Angela _curtsy to you."

"She couldn't have curtsied; her jaw was in the way."

I'm laughing as he tightens his arms around me.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know what I _should_ do, but I'm not ready for this to end. Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow? It would have to be at the Palace. As much as I'd like to take you out, it's just not practical for me."

I don't even have to think about my answer.

"I'd love to, Edward."

* * *

**And we're finally out of the steam room. Whew. Drop me a line; I'll send you a teaser in my reply. As always, thank you for reading. **

**C.**


	14. His Royal Rectal Needs

thanks to josh, detochkina, and lj summers

**The lovely roselover24 interviewed me about The Heir and the Spare. You can read it at sytycw DOT blogspot DOT com.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**His ****Royal Rectal Needs**

* * *

**Is There Trouble in Paradise Already?**

**Prince Edward Hits the Polo Grounds with Lady Irina Hollingsworth**

Hang onto your man, Not-a Swan! Looks like he's straying already. Spectators at the East City Polo Grounds spotted His Royal Hotness Prince Edward looking very cozy with Lady Irina Hollingsworth. According to our source, the pair was acting very flirty.

"Lady Irina seemed to hang on his every word. As they talked, she'd laugh and periodically touch his thigh or knee. His Royal Highness wasn't quite so animated and kept his hands to himself. But he didn't seem to mind the attention. There was no indication he told her to stop, and from time to time, he'd even smile."

As well he should. Though Prince Edward has known Lady Irina his entire life—her father, Baron Hollingsworth is part of Prince John's inner circle—he had to be pleasantly surprised when he saw her. Since going under the knife while Prince Edward was off on his last "humanitarian mission," Lady Irina is a changed woman. In fact, there's no longer any risk of His Royal Hotness confusing her with one of the horses. (Though if they happen to encounter donkeys, things could get dicey.)

So where does this leave His Royal Main Squeeze, Isabella "Not-a" Swan? We never thought we'd say this, but based solely on appearance, Not-a is by far the better choice—unless, of course, Prince Edward is into roleplay kink and wants to pretend he's Catherine the Great.

There's one thing we are sure of—if Prince Edward _is_ considering dumping Not-a, she's completely in the dark about his plans. Just this afternoon, she was spotted at the Drug$Mart across the street from Dot Swan. Now, why on earth would Not-a Swan need to run into a pharmacy in the middle of the day?

As an employee of the discount pharmacy chain told us, "She was a woman on a mission. Upon entering the store, she went directly to the condom aisle. It was the strangest thing ever. She spent a good twenty minutes there, mostly taking rubbers off the rack, reading the back of the packages, then putting them back. Eventually, she moved onto the next aisle where she made a phone call. I didn't hear much of her conversation, but she seemed to be getting advice on what type of condoms she should buy."

And what a photo it was! As if the thought of Not-a Swan buying love gloves wasn't entertaining enough on its own, we now have a picture of her standing under an enormous "Rectal Needs" sign. Needless to say, none of us here at Royal Bitch have ever had any need to venture into that aisle, so we did a little research into exactly what kind of products fall into that category. Turns out, it encompasses everything from enemas to speculums. Apparently, being full of shit IS a medical condition.

As we were told by the Drug$mart manager, "If you shit on it, in it, or with it, you can find it in our Rectal Needs aisle."

And that's exactly where our most-recent pic of Not-a was taken. Sometimes, reality is better than anything we could even _think_ to whip up in photoshop.

Wonder what Not-a would do if she knew that when she called Prince Edward to ask him if he preferred ribbed or glow-in-the-dark, he was in the process of chatting up another woman. Only time will tell!

**COMMENTS** (showing 11 of 564)

**HRH Princess Edward**

What a shitty post.

**Anon**

I'm confused. Is lube in the condom aisle, or the Rectal Needs aisle?

**Lady In Waiting**

Edward is such an asshole! I swear, if my boyfriend pulled that shit with me, he'd find a nasty surprise waiting for him in bed.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

When doesn't your boyfriend find something nasty waiting for him in bed? (P.S. It stopped surprising him YEARS ago.)

**His Royal Gayness**

I know all about His Royal Rectal Needs, and Not'a ain't one of them. Cock, on the other hand, followed by a good rimming...

**Assman 11**

Are rectum needs and needing rectum the same thing? I could use some ass, and there's a Drug$mart around the block from my office.

**Boners for Bomer**

There's something about Prince Edward that screams dirty sex. He's probably all about rimjobs and anal play. I bet he's also a talker. I can just hear him. "Lick my ass. Lick it...aw yeah...lick it, baby... lick it like you need it."

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

How do we know Not'a CAN'T fulfill His Royal Rectal Needs? Haven't you people ever seen The Crying Game?

**Lauren M**

I want to know what the condoms were made out of. Isn't Edward is allergic to both latex AND polyurethane?

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

Nice try, Troll E. But considering we were just talking about Edward's POLYESTER allergy the other day...

**Leisure Suit Larry**

They make condoms out of polyester? SWEET.

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

Since arriving at my office three hours ago, I've dodged four supposedly urgent client calls, cleared my calendar for the rest of the day, and activated the out-of-office reply on my email. It's the least productive I've ever been at work, but I can't bring myself to care. I'd rather spend a few hours doing nothing than risk getting sloppy because I wasn't paying attention—and where work is concerned, I'm definitely _not_ paying attention.

No matter how hard I try, I just _can't_. I'm too nervous about seeing Edward tonight.

It's not because I haven't been out on a date in forever (though I haven't) or even that I'm still not sure how I feel about Edward as a person (though I'm not). It's more that when we're together I feel completely out of control when it comes to my actions, and if I have any prayer of keeping my wits about me, I need to decide what my limits are _before _I arrive at the Palace. The problem is that I'm no closer to figuring it out now than I was when I woke up this morning.

For the next several moments I just sit there, drumming my fingertips against the cool mahogany of my desk. The better I feel about myself going into tonight, the less likely I'll be to get swept up in the moment and do something stupid. My mom always told me that confidence _should _come from within, but when it's being an uncooperative motherfucker, I should buy an outfit that conveys self-assuredness and try to absorb some through osmosis.

I've never been one to ditch work to go shopping, and despite the fact I've already clocked well over eighty hours in the office this week, I feel guilty for even entertaining the thought. Still, when I think of the decided lack of sexy in my closet, the more getting a new dress for tonight appeals to me. Suddenly, it hits me. There's a boutique nearby Esme likes that's by appointment only where, in theory, I'd be able to try on dresses without worrying about the paps snapping my picture through the slats of the fitting-room door. If they have an opening, I'll take it as a sign I should go buy a dress. If they're booked up, I'll scrap the whole idea and force myself to have the most productive Friday afternoon in the history of Dot Swan.

I get the number from Google and give them a call. They have an opening in an hour that's mine if I can make it there in time. Done and done. I grab my bag and hightail it to the elevator. Just when I think I've managed to sneak out undetected, Heidi calls after me.

"Stepping out?" she asks.

"Yes." I turn on my heel and walk over to her desk. "I have an errand to run, but I should be back later this afternoon. Why?"

"Your mother's called six times in the past hour..."

I slump my shoulders forward and let out a long sigh.

"I know you don't want to hear it," Heidi says, "but she made me promise her I'd give you her message today _and_ that I wouldn't let you interrupt me until I read you the whole thing. Then she reminded me that while you may be _my_ boss, your father is _your_ boss—"

"And _she's _my dad's boss—I know, I know." I roll my eyes. "Just give it to me straight. I promise I won't kill you for being the messenger."

"The next time you go this long without taking her phone calls, she's going to assume you're dead and write you out of her will. She said all this incessant worrying about you is going to, and I quote, 'send me to an early grave...'"

"'...or at the very least, make me need more Botox.'" We wag our heads from side to side as we finish the sentence in unison.

"None of this is news to me, Hei."

"She also wanted me to remind you that despite the fact your sister's wedding is only two weeks away, it's not too late for you to learn how to dance before the reception. She said..." Heidi looks up from her laptop at me. "...and this is a direct quote, 'Esme didn't nab a prince doing the goddamn chicken dance, you know.'"

"She didn't nab him doing the effing foxtrot either, but whatever. Next."

"Hang on." She scans the screen again. "She said she took the liberty of hiring you a stylist to conceptualize your look for the reception and that the utilization of said stylist was not up for negotiation."

"It never is." I shake my head and let out a long sigh. "What else?"

"I think that's everything."

I straighten my back. "Really?"

"Yep," she confirms. "That's it."

"You know, if I'd known she was going to go _that _easy on me, I wouldn't have spent the past few days hiding from her. When she calls back, thank her for hiring me a stylist, but remind her my wardrobe hard limits remain non-negotiable."

"Done."

"And tell her that if she can find an instructor willing to come here, I'd be more than happy to humor her with a dance lesson or two."

Heidi wrinkles her forehead. "Do such instructors even exist?"

"I'm thinking not." Smiling, I make my way to the elevator and push the button. "If anyone asks, I'm unreachable."

Funny how a simple change of scenery can bring clarity. By the time I step out of my office building, I've already decided that I'm not going to sleep with Edward tonight—no matter how good he looks or how well he behaves himself. It's just not me. The number of sexual partners I've had is equal to the number of long-term relationships I've been in: one.

Even if that has had more to do with lack of opportunity than morality, there's no way I'm screwing anyone on the first date—especially not a bad-boy prince with a reputation for not taking anything seriously. But having sex with Edward feels more like a when than an if, so I make a quick detour to Drug$mart, just in case.

Before I run head-on into the irony that is the condom-and-pregnancy-test aisle, I do a quick scan of my surroundings. When I'm sure I'm not being followed by paps, I take the plunge. Just as I pull a pack of condoms from the rack, my phone vibrates.

Esme.

I put the condoms back and jet over to the next aisle to take her call. Though I don't think anyone is around to take my picture, I've now been burned enough to know this could change at any time. The last thing I need right now is a picture of me standing in the family-planning aisle of Drug$mart with rubbers in my hand getting plastered all over internet.

Confident that I've covered all the bases, I finally answer my phone. "Hey, Esme. What's up?"

"I hear you're coming to the Palace tonight and that you're _not_ coming to see me."

"That would be correct."

"I see."

I wait for her to say something else, but there's a long silence that makes me wonder if the call dropped.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes...just be careful, okay?"

I laugh. "Don't worry—I already thought of that! I don't think things will go _that_ far, but I stopped at Drug$Mart just in case."

"I'm not talking about safe sex. Shit." She sighs. "I don't even know how to put this..."

"Whatever it is, just say it."

"Edward's a great guy—one of the best, really. And I've known him long enough to know that he'd never hurt anyone intentionally..."

"Okaaaaaay. You realize we're just having dinner, right?"

"Promise me you won't fall in love with him."

She_ did not_ just say what I think she said.

"Excuse me?"

"This isn't about me thinking the two of you won't hit it off. I've no doubt you _will_—that's why I'm telling you this. If I didn't, and you got hurt...I feel bad enough about everything as it is...just be careful."

"All right. I don't know what the hell is going on with you, but you've been acting really freaking weird."

"What's weird about trying to look out for my little sister?"

"_That's_ not weird; it's your complete 180 on Edward I don't get. When I thought he was a waste of oxygen, you were up my butt for me to give him a chance. So I did, and it turns out you were right. I _do_ like him. But now you're changing your tune again?"

"There's a whole lot going on that you don't know about. Bella, I wish I could—"

"Are you sleeping with him?" I ask.

"What? No. God, Bella. _No_."

"I didn't think so, but I had to ask. You have to admit..." I stop when I notice an employee standing a few feet away holding his iPhone.

Shit.

All this crap with the tabloids is making me lose my mind. Though I have no reason to believe this guy's been listening to my conversation with Esme, there's an off-chance he was, and the last thing I need is to give him any more material than I might have already.

"Esme, I've got to go, but this conversation isn't over." I end the call, grab a pack of condoms, and head to the front of the store to pay for them.

There's no way I'm going to let Esme's weirdness chip away at what little confidence I have about seeing Edward tonight.

Maybe I should also treat myself to a new pair of shoes.

**-o-O-o-**

The moment Edward and I are alone, he pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly. I want him to kiss me so badly that when he takes a step back, I close my eyes and lick my lips in anticipation.

Then I hear him laugh, and I want the floor to swallow me up whole.

"Sorry," he says. "As much as I'd like to pick up where we left off, I promised myself I'd be a gentleman and feed you first."

"Oh. So dinner isn't a euphemism after all."

"No—at least, not tonight." With his eyes trained on me , he takes another step back. He doesn't even bother to hide the fact he's checking me out. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

I smile, though in all honesty it doesn't have anything to do with his compliment. For the first time since I became a tabloid obsession, I actually _feel_ beautiful.

It's funny. I've never been a fan of wearing red, mostly because it's a look-at-me color, and if there's one thing I hate, it's being the center of attention. But the dress I bought for tonight is a darker, more muted shade that's less in-your-face while still being vibrant enough to make my hair color look less blah. And the way the bodice crosses in the front and gathers at the waist? My curves have never looked so good.

Neither has Edward.

Though I won't claim he put as much effort into his appearance as I did—men never do—it's obvious he didn't roll out of bed five minutes before I got here. This is not His Royal Vomitous Prince Edward the Pothead. Oh no. This is His Royal Hotness, clean-shaven and well-coiffed, wearing a perfectly pressed white dress shirt and dark gray trousers cut to accentuate His Royal Ass.

"You know what would make this better?" he asks.

"No, what?"

He nods toward the floor.

Oh no. He's got to be fucking kidding me.

After everything that happened yesterday, he has the audacity to ask me for obeisance?

I fold my arms across my chest. "No."

"No?" he repeats, narrowing his eyes at me.

"Oops!" I cover my mouth with my hand and pretend I'm embarrassed. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm so in awe of your princeliness my manners went poof! Right out of the Palace. I meant to say, 'No, You Royal A_sshole_.' And on that note, I should be going." I grab my bag and head for the door.

"Oh no. Don't even think about it." He catches my wrist in his hand.

Trying to wrestle myself from his grasp is useless. Even if his physical grip weren't unyielding, I still wouldn't be able to leave. His hold on me is just too strong.

Thinking he'll get bored if I don't struggle, I freeze in place. Though I don't attempt to pull away from him, I don't turn around and look at him either. It's not because I'm worried he'll say something that will make me swallow my pride and bend my knees. Now that he's seen me in my underwear, the thought of curtsying to him is too morally repugnant for me to even consider it. But if I turn around to find he's giving me that cocky, self-satisfied smile he wears when he knows he's got me, I can't trust myself not to smack it off his face.

With his hand still clutching my wrist, he wraps his free arm around my waist and pulls my back against his chest. The way he's manhandling me pisses me off, but I can't deny the extent to which this little power struggle is turning me on.

And if what I feel pressing into my back is any indication, neither can he.

"Bella—"

"I agreed to have dinner with you because I thought we were beyond you thinking of me as one of your subjects."

"I don't think of _anyone_ that way—especially not you."

"Then why the hell do you expect me to curtsy to you?"

"I was just teasing you." He brushes my hair away from my face and, with a low voice, speaks directly into my ear. "Remember the steam room? You curtsied, and your towel fell off. I could give a shit about displays of obeisance. Most of the time, I don't even notice them. But you in your underwear? Believe me; I noticed."

I can't help my smile. "Oh."

He relaxes his grip.

I linger in his arms for a moment then turn to face him. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How can you _not_ notice when people genuflect and call you Sir?"

"It's like anything else you see all the time. Eventually, it just becomes part of the scenery. There are exceptions, of course. Obviously, I noticed when _you_ did it—mostly because of the huffing and stomping that came with it. Then you kept it up even after I told you to cut it out—"

"Hang on a second." I hold up my hand. "I do _not_ remember you telling me to cut it out."

"Oh. Well, I did. I assumed you kept doing anyway it to piss me off."

I roll my eyes. "If you think obeisance pisses _you_ off—"

"Obeisance embarrass me; _you_ piss me off. You realize what a pain in the ass you are, right? I've never seen you open your mouth except to complain, and on the rare occasion you're not spouting off about something, you're either rolling your eyes or doing this thing where you drop your jaw and squint at me like I'm an idiot."

"That's because you _are_ an idiot. Tell me something: if you dislike me so much, why the hell did you keep asking me out?"

"Because I knew that when you finally said yes, it wouldn't be because I'm a prince, but in spite of it." He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "I'm sorry. This isn't how I wanted things to go. I wasn't trying to offend you, but I understand if you want to leave—"

"I don't." I lean back against the wall of the foyer and empty the air from my lungs. As much as I want to feel insulted, I can't. I get where he's coming from. "What you're talking about—this fear of being used—it's why I haven't been on a date in four years. Growing up, my mom always warned us to be careful, that guys were only after one thing."

He smiles. "That's not entirely untrue."

"It is in my experience. There's this guy I dated all through college. We had fun, but we knew we didn't have a future after graduation. A year or so later, I get a email from him saying he loved me and needed me, blah blah blah. Turned out what he really needed was a job.

"I don't know. Maybe he _was_ only after one thing, but it wasn't sex. Sometimes I wish it were—at least _that_ would've had something to do with me."

"You know nothing like that is going on here, right? This thing..." He waggles his hand back and forth between us. "I don't even know what to call it. It's an unneeded distraction at a time in my life when I have no business getting involved with anyone. And yes, you frustrate me to no end. Half the time I'm not sure if I want to have you forcibly removed from the Palace or if I want to forcibly remove your clothing. No one's ever made me feel this way, and I don't know what it is, but I like it. I like _you_. And even though you infuriate me, I'd still like you to stay and have dinner with me." He reaches out to me and tugs on my wrist. "Keep me company while I cook?"

"So much for never lying to me," I say, laughing. "I _might_ be able to believe you when you say you like me—I like me, too—but you can't seriously expect me to believe you're cooking dinner for me yourself. "

"Except I am."

"R-ight." Rolling my eyes, I push myself away from the wall and peer down the hallway. "Now, where did you hide the caterers?"

"So you refuse to believe I know my way around the kitchen. Is this because I'm a guy or because I'm a prince?"

"It's because _I_ can't boil a pot of water without starting a fire."

"Good to know." He's laughing as he puts his arm around me. "In that case, I'd better not let you anywhere near the stove."

On our way to the kitchen, I notice a grand piano in the space once occupied by a couple of purgatorial-looking sofas. However, there are no caterers to be found.

Maybe he really can cook.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to some bar stools flanking a large center island. "Would you like something to drink? I'm not as stocked as I'd like to be." His expression is sheepish as he proceeds to the other side of the island. "Still settling in, you know? I'm equipped for martinis, and Esme sent over a bottle of the Chianti you like, so there's wine, if you'd prefer."

"I'd love a martini. Extra dirty."

One corner of his mouth turns up into a half-smile that's all sex. "My kind of girl."

I try not to let on how much his comment excites me.

As he goes to work on our cocktails, I stare at his hands, wondering how it would feel if they went to work on my body. Watching him is such fun, I'm almost disappointed when he comes over to my side of the island holding two dirty martinis, one of which he hands to me.

He raises his glass. "To new experiences."

After we each take sips, he returns to the other side of the island.

"Let's see..." He pulls a saucepan from an overhead rack, places it on one of the burners, and heads over to the refrigerator.

Then he opens the refrigerator door and I see it— the now-infamous list— hanging in plain view from a magnet that reads: 'Keep calm. There's still one Prince left.'"

Not knowing what the list is for has been driving me insane, but it wasn't something I felt comfortable asking him about under the circumstance. After all, if I hadn't been snooping, I never would have seen the damn thing in the first place. But now that Edward has it hanging on the fridge as if it were something he's proud of...

Game on.

"Nice magnet, but that's one hell of a grocery list."

"Thanks," he says, still leaning into the fridge. "Carlisle gave it to me as a joke."

"Really? Usually I get his jokes, but I can't see how a list of single women could possibly be funny."

"It isn't." He returns to the island holding a carton of heavy cream and a jar of tomato sauce, both of which he empties into the saucepan. "I was talking about the magnet."

"So?"

He shrugs. "What?"

"The list."

"Oh. Just some friends I need to see now that I'm home."

I don't believe him for a second, but I let it go—for now. So what if those women are hanging up on his refrigerator? _I'm_ the one in his kitchen watching him cook.

And much to my amazement, he actually seems to be good at it.

"I have to admit," I say, changing the subject, "your culinary skills are impressive."

"Thank you."

"And I'm guessing from the recent addition to your living room that you also play the piano."

"I do, but I'm a bit out of practice. I hoping that will change now that I've been removed from active duty." He shrugs. "I don't have much else to do with my time."

"Can't count on spending hours trapped in a steam room _every _day, I guess."

"Only on very good days."

There's something about his tone of voice that makes the room suddenly seem ten degrees hotter.

"Anyway," he continues, "having the piano brought over from my mother's old apartments was part of my make-the-most-out-of-being-pulled-out-of-active-duty-and-stuck-here-in-the-Palace plan."

"Have you considered living elsewhere? I mean, I get why you'd be miserable in Masen Palace. When Esme moved in here, she thought it would be great for her, that the twelve-foot-high iron fence would eliminate the feeling of living in a fishbowl. But it's just the illusion of privacy, isn't it? The paparazzi may not be able to get to you here, but you're still never truly alone. It seems so...I don't know..." I try to phrase this as inoffensively as possible. "...stifling."

He laughs. "Not a fan of the Royal Ghetto, huh?"

"Royal Ghetto?"

"That's how my grandmother's staff refers to Masen Palace. The joke is that this is where she houses the family rejects."

"Really?" I ask, wrinkling my forehead. "I thought you grew up here."

"That's what they keep telling me. My mother's apartments are right next door to this one— but I don't have any memories of ever living with her here. I was sent to boarding school when I was seven..." He shrugs. "I suppose Masen Palace has always been my official residence, and I've had this apartment since I finished school."

"You've been here that long? I just assumed..." I cut myself off when it occurs to me what I'm about to say will probably offend him. "Never mind."

"No, tell me."

"It doesn't seem very...I don't know..._you_."

"It's not. But I've never spent more than a few weeks here at a time, so I never saw the need to change anything. In fact, with the exception of the piano and updated electronics, my apartment looks exactly as it did when my mother used it to house overnight guests. It does have some neat details—like the hidden passageway connecting this apartment to the one that was hers. Legend has it my great-great grandfather had it built so he could sneak his lovers into his bedchamber undetected."

I count backwards in my head. "King Edward III?"

"Yes."

"Okay." I drag out each syllable as I lower my head and roll it from one shoulder to the other. "Now you're just making stuff up. King Edward III would have no reason to sneak his lovers _anywhere_. Everyone knew he was a manwhore, and on top of it, he was King! It's not as if he had to answer to anyone. Building a secret passage to sneak women into his room seems like a waste of effort."

"It wasn't built so he could sneak in women."

My jaw drops. "He was into guys, too?"

"He was into _everything_."

As Edward works on the rest of our meal, there's a certain finesse to his movements—a practiced grace so enthralling it makes me wonder if, with the obvious exception of the time he threw up on me, the man has ever had an awkward moment in his life. Then he catches me staring at him, and my emotions are a cross between how I felt when my mom found my stash of contraband candy when I was ten and how I felt when Edward caught me snooping in his bedroom last week. It's the kind of embarrassment that has little to do with my actions and everything to do with what my actions say about who I am. I don't want Edward to notice it, let alone analyze it, so when he tells me to take a seat at the dining room table and that he'll be in with dinner shortly, I'm grateful to have something to focus on besides how much I want to jump his bones.

"Esme didn't start to feel at home here until she redecorated her living space. I don't know. Maybe you'd feel better if you made your apartment more a reflection of who you are."

"Possibly. Then again, I don't anticipate being here that long. It's fine for me, but there's not enough space for a family."

"Is that something you want?"

"It's expected of me." He looks down at his plate and stabs a piece of penne with his fork. "What about you?" he asks, before popping it into his mouth.

"Honestly? My career has always come first, and I can't imagine that ever changing. My dad's worked so hard his whole life. Someone has to make sure his legacy is carried on, and it's not as if Esme's willing to pitch in."

"So you do it out of duty."

"What? No. I mean, that's part of it—I'm close to my parents, but I also love what I do."

"Let's say for the sake of argument that you didn't. Would you still do it?"

"But I _do_ love working for my dad, so your question isn't relevant."

"It is because it says a lot about who you are." His face is serious as he leans in a bit closer. "Please. I'd really like to know."

I take another bite of pasta and chew it as slowly as possible, thinking I need all the time I can get to figure out my answer. Would I devote my life to something I didn't enjoy out of a feeling of familial obligation?

I know I wouldn't be happy about it, and I'd probably resent whomever created the circumstances that would require me to make such a sacrifice, but ultimately, I'd do what was expected of me and try to make the most of it.

"I'd do whatever I had to do."

He smiles, but his face shows no joy. "We're more alike than I realized."

At no point during the evening does our conversation lull. From time to time, we touch each other as we talk—a pat here, a squeeze there. There are even a few times I think he's going to kiss me, but he doesn't. Even as he helps me into the car, he's a perfect gentleman.

It's unbelievably disappointing.

After Edward closes the car door, I replay the past few hours in my head, wondering if maybe I got things wrong.

A moment later he re-opens it. "How good is the security at your building?"

"Lately there have been a few paps outside, but they never manage to get past the doorman. Why?"

He gets into the car beside me.

"Edward, you don't have to—"

"Remember the night you crashed here? I put you to bed, and you said it felt like that awkward moment after a date when a decision needs to be made about how you want things to go, and even though you had plenty of time to think about it, you still don't know what you want?"

"Yes, but—"

"I know_ exactly_ what I want. " He lays his hand on my knee. "And it starts with walking you to your door. "

Half an hour later, having driven across town and successfully dodged the paps, we're standing in the hallway outside my flat.

"This seems private enough," Edward says.

I look over his shoulder to where his guard stands a few feet away. "If you say so."

"He doesn't count." He pulls me into his arms and hugs me tightly. After a few seconds, he lets go. "I'll call you."

It isn't until he turns to leave that it hits me. The last time he tried to kiss me, I smacked him. Of course he's not going to initiate anything—after that, it's on me to make the next move.

So I do.

I throw my arms around his neck and press my lips against his. At first, there's nothing. He doesn't react, nor does he respond.

Fuck. Why didn't I think to invite him inside first?

Maybe kissing him out here in the hallway wasn't the best idea, but since I can't take it back now, I might as well make it memorable. With all of me pressed against all of him, I tug on his hair and run my tongue across his lower lip.

Almost instantaneously, his hands are in my hair, and his tongue is in my mouth. It's intense, it's amazing, and I don't doubt for a moment it's real. It's also over far too soon.

"Would you like to come inside for a bit?" I ask.

"It's late; I really shouldn't."

I'm crushed, but I don't let it show. "I understand."

"Tomorrow, though..." Smiling, he leans his forehead against mine. "May I see you tomorrow?"

I say yes, but it's only part of my answer.

I think I'd let him see me whenever he wanted.


	15. His Royal Temper

thanks to lj summers and josh

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**His Royal Temper**

* * *

**This Just In:**

**Prince Edward Brawls With Paparazzi Outside Girlfriend's Apartment Building**

In the past few weeks, we've learned a lot about His Royal Hotness Prince Edward the Ginger, and almost all of it supports something we've long suspected: the man's a hardcore pothead and lazy as hell.

This is a guy who pisses in the ocean before going inside his yacht to use the bathroom, who drinks the bong water before sending someone out for more dope, who uses a BS allergy as an excuse to avoid getting a job, and who lets his bodyguards end relationships on his behalf. This is a guy who, after walking his girlfriend to her door at the end of night out, defends her honor with his fists.

Sing with us. "One of these things is not like the other_..."_

Crazy as it may sound, Prince Edward did indeed escort Isabella "Not-a" Swan to her flat after what appeared to be a date. At ten past midnight, a black sedan with tinted windows pulled up in front of the Chelsea building, the historic hotel-turned-luxury co-op Not-a Swan has called home since moving back to The Westerlands six months ago. Two liveried Protection Officers got out of the front of the car and stood on either side of the rear passenger door, as Prince Edward emerged from the car. Much to our surprise, it was His Royal Hotness who helped Not-a climb out of the car, not one of his thugs—er—bodyguards. As they walked the three meters of sidewalk from the street to the entrance of the Chelsea, Prince Edward kept his arm around Not-a's waist and leaned into her, as if trying to shield her from the sea of flash bulbs.

When His Royal Hotness reappeared a few minutes later, he ignored the paparazzo's requests that he pose for a few photos.

This is when shit started to get real.

According to reports, one of the paps yelled something like, "You only lasted five minutes?"

His Royal Hotness froze in place.

Seemingly thrilled to have gotten the famously-stoic prince to react, the pap continued, "Not-a spent more time BUYING the rubber than you did wearing it!"

Because photos of celebs looking at the camera are worth far more money, the paparazzi has a long-standing tradition of saying the most offensive things they can think of with the hope of shocking the subject of their pursuit into turning to look at them.

Tonight they were particularly creative.

That Prince Edward reacted to the first insult hurled at him encouraged the crowd of gathered photographers, leading one of them to take it a bit further.

"Leave him alone, guys," the esteemed photojournalist shouted. "It's obvious he didn't just fuck her. If he had, his hair would be messed up from his blindfold. I mean, look at his girlfriend. No way he could get it up without one."

Before his Protection Officers could intervene, Prince Edward stalked over to the offending paparazzo and smashed both his camera and his face.

That's when another pap jumped to his colleague's defense and punched Prince Edward several times, allegedly knocking out one of his teeth and breaking his nose.

According to an eyewitness, "The Prince got hit a few times before his thugs stepped in and started fighting for him, the pussy. Anyway, after the first punch, you could hear bone cracking, and blood spurted everywhere. You know what the craziest part was? His blood wasn't even blue!"

It was complete pandemonium until the police arrived to disperse the crowd, issuing a stern warning that anyone remaining would be charged with trespassing. Though several arrests were made, Prince Edward has yet to be seen since his guards ushered him back inside Not-a's building.

Our reporter asked a detective on the scene why Prince Edward wasn't being held for questioning and got the following response: "Our first priority is always the safety of our citizens. We'll get His Royal Highness's statement once order is restored on the street. It's not as if we don't know where he lives."

The victim of His Royal Temper was taken away in an ambulance. No word yet as to whether or not he's planning to press criminal charges.

**COMMENTS** (showing 11 of 2,876)

**His Royal Gayness**

And we thought only gynos did pap smears!

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

That was a pretty obnoxious thing to say, and he's been dealing with stuff like this his whole life. Not condoning violence, but I can see how he could get to a point where he'd just snap.

**Leisure Suit Larry**

What's the point of having two Secret Policemen with you at all times if they don't step up when the shit hits the fan?

**Her Majesty Queen Charlotte the First of Her Name**

How else would I squander your tax dollars? A woman can only own so many palaces, you know.

**Boners For Bomer**

Further proof that his bodyguards are really his boyfriends. Ever notice how Carlisle and Esme's protection officers are never in livery and Edward's are? Methinks he has a uniform fetish.

**HRH Princess Edward**

As if anyone would press assault charges against Prince Edward! What's the point? You know he'll get out of it.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

At the very least, he'll have to pay the guy off. There's no way he can deny it since we got the whole thing on tape.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

You were there?

**Monarch Shutterfly**

Yes. Still am, in fact.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

How? They said they'd charge you guys with trespassing. Besides by all accounts, the show is over.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

The sidewalk belongs to the city. As long as we remain orderly, we can't legally be kept from gathering in public spaces. They have barricades up around the entrance to the Chelsea, but as long as we don't cross them, we're cool.

And it's far from over. Prince Edward's gone into the building, but he's yet to come out. If he took half the beating everyone claims he did, he's going to look like shit when he does. Can you imagine our pretty boy with a broken nose? I'll be damned if I don't get a picture of it.

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

I'm about to step into the shower when I hear the knock on my door. Right away, I know something's not right. Visitors to my flat always go through security, at which point the guard on duty calls me to make sure they're welcome before allowing them into the elevator. Then again, maybe Edward changed his mind and decided to come inside for a few minutes after all. He wouldn't be announced if he were already in the building.

I shut off the water and thrown on my robe. As I turn to leave the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face is scrubbed free of makeup, my hair's piled on top of my head haphazardly, secured in place with a white plastic roller clip, and my robe, though comfortable, is frumpy as fuck.

There's no way I want Edward to see me looking like this. I let down my hair and fluff it with my fingers, then rush to my closet for something a bit less matronly I settle on a short, silk robe that's lavender and gray with a spattering of yellow embroidery. When Esme gave it to me, she said it was "demurely sexy".

Yep. That's _exactly _what I'm going for. I throw on the robe and the prettiest pair of panties I own, then rush to the door. Just to be safe, I stand on tiptoe and look through the peephole. Edward's standing in the hallway with his Protection Officer, just as I expected. It's that his shirt's torn and his mouth is bloody that catches me off-guard.

Oh shit.

"Hang on a sec." My hands are shaking as I fumble with the lock. It seems to take forever, but eventually, I manage to open the door.

"Hello, Bella," he says, smiling. "It appears I'll be taking you up on your invitation after all."

"Oh my god." I step aside so he can enter. "Are you okay? What the hell happened?"

"I'm fine; I just got into a bit of a scuffle with a photographer."

My eyes dart from Edward to his bodyguard. _He_ looks exactly as he did when he left. What's the point of having a bodyguard if he doesn't step in during a fight? I open my mouth to ask him where he was through all this, but then I realize I should probably ask his name first.

"This is weird considering you helped drive me home, but I don't think we've been introduced." I extend my hand to him. "I'm Bella."

"Sorry," Edward says. "Bella, Marcus. Marcus, Bella. To make a long story short, one of the guys I hit insisted on calling the police, and since the entire incident happened on camera, I couldn't very well hop into my car and speed off. The responding officers were kind enough to permit me to wait inside until they're ready to take my statement. You don't mind if they come up here, do you? It's pretty crazy downstairs right now."

"Of course not."

"I'll let them know," Marcus says, reaching for his phone.

"Thank you." Edward wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of blood on his fingers. "Damn it."

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." I take his wrist in my hand and tug him along with me to my bedroom, closing the door behind us. "Sit," I say, pointing to the bed. "I'll be right back."

I proceed to my bathroom, where I retrieve my first-aid kit from under the sink.

When I come out, Edward's sitting there waiting for me.

"Interesting choice of decor," he says, gesturing to the walls.

"Hey, at least I bothered to hang stuff up."

"You did, which tells me there must be some significance to the both the Wonder Woman poster and the enormous framed print of a hundred-dollar bill, even if I can't imagine what."

I'm laughing as I unzip the first-aid kit and put it down on the bed beside him. "They help me stay focused on what I need to do."

"Be a superhero and make money?"

"Pretty much." I tear open an alcohol pad. "I'm sorry. This will probably sting."

"It's okay," he says, tilting his face toward mine.

I expect him to flinch when I clean his cut, but he doesn't. Instead, he scoots closer, stopping when I'm standing between his knees. It dials up the intensity of the moment, making me hyper-aware of everything. The heat of his body, the slight scratchiness of his trousers against my skin, the way his hands move slowly from his legs onto mine—I've had sex that wasn't this sensual. But the cops will be here any minute, and I can't let myself get carried away—at least, not yet.

I focus on the task at hand. "How did this happen?"

"Eh." He shrugs. "Some pap said something that pissed me off."

"Don't they always?"

"Frequently, yes. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, and to a certain extent, I am. But sometimes...I don't know..."

"What?" I put down the used alcohol pad and dab a bit of Neosporin onto my index finger.

"Sometimes they say things that remind me of how they were with my mother, and then I don't care how it looks or what kind of trouble it gets me into. I'm not going to let it go."

"I see." I raise my finger to his mouth. "May I?"

He nods. As I gently apply the ointment to the cut beneath his bottom lip, his thumbs trace lazy circles on the bare skin of my thighs. When I'm finished, he catches my hand in his and presses his lips against my palm. He drags his mouth to my wrist, peppering my skin with kisses.

I close my eyes and lean into him. Just as his hand starts to move up my leg underneath my robe, there's a knock at the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir," Marcus calls from out in the hallway, "but there's a detective here to question you."

Edward turns his head toward the door. "I'll be right there." He looks back at me with an apologetic smile. "Duty beckons."

"Of course."

I move out of his way, and he gets up from my bed. As I follow him down the hallway, I'm not sure if I'm disappointed or relieved. I linger behind when he steps into the living room. I _might_ be okay with Edward's Protection Officers seeing me in lingerie—mostly because I have no choice—but I draw the line at run-of-the-mill popo.

Edward looks at Marcus and nods.

"Your Royal Highness, this is Detective Crowley." Marcus turns to the policemen. "Detective, His Royal Highness Prince Edward."

Right away, Detective Crowley bows his head.

"None of that and please call me Edward." Edward shakes the detective's hand then gestures to the sofa. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"That's very kind of you, Sir, but I won't be here long. I hate to trouble you at all, but since the complainant was taken from the scene in an ambulance, it has to at least appear as if we're treating you the way we'd treat anyone else."

Edward looks surprised. "An ambulance? I didn't hit him _that_ hard, though given what he said to me, I probably _should _have."

"I can't say that I blame you. If someone insulted my girlfriend like that, I'd probably react the same way—"

"Girlfriend?" I look at Edward in disbelief.

I'm not surprised Detective Crowley thinks Edward and I are in an actual relationship—even if it wasn't the hot gossip right now, he did just see us come out of my bedroom together. What I can't get over is Edward's willingness to risk both corporal and political injury to defend my honor. Part of me is appalled by his willingness to allow his testosterone and machismo start a controversy like this and insulted that he thinks I'm unable to handle this on my own.

The rest of me? Pretty fucking turned on.

"Anyway," the detective continues, "We're not planning on pursuing this from a criminal standpoint, but obviously, the victim has the right to file charges."

"Of course," Edward says.

Crowley moves toward the door, then turns back to Edward. "One more thing. It's gotten pretty crazy outside. We've set up barricades to keep the people from blocking the entrance to the building, but if you were to leave tonight, we're not sure we'd be able manage the crowds in such a way that would guarantee everyone's safety. Usually, we only have mobs like this for official appearances by the Royal Family. As you know, those are scheduled well in advance, and the Palace Guard is always on hand to provide crowd control—"

"Of course. I'll make the necessary arrangements in the morning. If that's all, Marcus will see you out." Edward waits for them to leave, then turns to me. "Looks like we're spending the night. We shouldn't inconvenience you too much. Marcus doesn't sleep when he's on duty, and I can crash anywhere. Do you have a guest room?"

"First things first. You pounded the shit out of a pap because he insulted me?"

"Can we discuss that later? Marcus will be back any minute, and I'd like to have this figured out—"

"No, I don't have a guest room."

"Oh." He almost looks disappointed. "In that case, do you mind if I crash with you? It's just easier that way since Marcus will be out here in the living room all night. I promise to behave myself."

"Fine. Whatever." I wave my hand at him. "Now please answer the question."

"Yes, I hit him because he insulted you."

"So much for not lying to me! Half an hour ago, you said it reminded you of your mother."

He wrinkles his forehead. "Yes, and?"

"Oh, come on! Surely you see how one statement seems to contradict the other."

"Not really. I saw an opportunity to do something for you that I was never able to do for her, so I took it."

"Right." I roll my eyes. "Because talk-shit-get-hit is _exactly_ the kind of behavior one expects from a member of the Royal Family. Next time, why don't you just demand satisfaction?"

"I would have if I thought I could get away with it! Look, I'm not going to pretend my conduct was befitting of an officer and a gentleman, but I refuse to stand idly while some asshole disrespects a woman I care about."

Oh, fuck it all. I can worry about what this does to my feminist membership status later. Right now, I just want to kiss him.

I close the distance between us and throw my arms around Edward's neck. Just as our lips are about to touch, there's a knock at the door.

Edward sighs. "That would be Marcus. There are a few things I need to discuss with him..."

"Take as much time as you need. You know where to find me." I smile at him, then head back to my bedroom.

It isn't until the door closes behind me that my nerves sink in.

I take a deep breath, and tell myself this is no different from our date earlier tonight. I just need to have a plan.

First things first—I know I can't sleep in this robe without it inadvertently coming open at some point in the night, but that doesn't mean I don't want to feel sexy.

I settle on a short, off-white slip and put the robe back on over it. Now that I know he won't see me naked unless I want him to, I can focus on the more important issue: do I want him to?

Crazy as it sounds, I think I do.

I'm still not ready to have sex with him—things haven't changed _that _much in the past hour—but I wouldn't object if he wanted to fool around a bit.

"Sorry about that." Edward pulls the door closed and moves toward me, his eyes roaming over my body in way that makes me feel naked even though I'm not.

Feeling self-conscious, I head for the bathroom.

"Come on," I say. "Let me show you where everything is."

After I set him up with what he needs, I excuse myself so he can take care of business. I climb into bed but stay on top the covers. With my eyes closed, I tell myself this is the same as the steam room. He managed to behave himself then, and odds are tonight will be no different.

The problem is that then I wanted him to behave, and now I don't.

He comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and a smile. God help me, he's even hotter than I remember.

"Thank you." He gets into bed and stretches out on his side so he's facing me. "I feel much better."

The lamp beside the bed lights his skin in such a way that the bruises on his jaw seem much worse than they did before.

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

"Does what hurt?"

"Your face. It's pretty badly bruised."

"Yeah, I noticed that in the bathroom. It looks a lot worse than it feels."

I reach for him but stop just before touching his face. "May I?"

"Yes."

As gently as possible, I trace the outlines of his bruises with my fingertips. "What did he say about me? The guy who did this, I mean."

"Does it matter?"

"Oh?" I raise my eyebrows. "That bad, huh?"

"Bella—"

"It's not as if I'm not going to find out eventually anyway..."

"Fine," he says, sighing. "He'd read the bit about you buying condoms this afternoon and decided to take it a step further."

This can't be happening to me.

I cover my face with my hands and brace myself. "What _about_ me buying condoms?"

"Someone got a picture of you today at the pharmacy. They say you bought condoms, but the photo is of you talking on the phone. You're standing in front of a shelf of enemas, right under a sign that read _Rectal Needs_."

"Rectal Needs? I don't even know what that is! I ran into Drug$mart for condoms, then Esme called. I didn't want to take the chance someone would see me buying rubbers, so I went one aisle over before I answered..." _But I didn't look to see which aisle I was stepping into. _"It was the ass aisle, wasn't it?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. I've never been inside a drugstore—"

"This is all my fault." My face heats up, and it takes everything in me not to cry. "I _know_ what it's like outside my building every day...if I hadn't let you come inside the building with me...or if I hadn't gone to Drug$mart this afternoon...or even if I'd let Esme go to voicemail..." I shake my head. "You know, I'm not sure what's worse—that all this happened or that it's actually starting to make sense to me."

"What's starting to make sense?"

"How elaborate tabloid fodder can be spun from the tiniest details. What's crazy is that they're never complete fabrications—at least, not the ones I've seen about me. I read all of them, you know—I can't _not. _ Usually, they're easy to laugh off because they're just so out there...but sometimes what they post is just close enough to what I know that their version of the facts is the one that stays with me. After a while, the differences between the two get more and more blurred, until even I don't know what to believe."

"Then you'll have to take my word for it—everything they've posted about today is bullshit."

"I meant in general."

"Oh." He lowers his eyes. "You're talking about me now, aren't you?"

"Not at all," I lie.

He looks up at me and raises his eyebrows.

"Fine," I admit with a sigh. "Yes, I'm talking about you."

"You know, you could just _ask _me."

"Right. Because you'll _totally_ tell me what I want to know." I shake my head. "These days, I can't even get a straight answer out of my own sister."

"I know this is a sticking point for you, and in a lot of ways, I understand why. You grew up being told to trust people until they give you reason not to, and withholding trust is always meant to be punitive."

"So was Esme. We have the same mother, you know."

"Esme's spent enough time around us to see the other side of things. You have to understand, the monarchy is its own entity. I may be part of it, but it doesn't belong to me. Hell, my own _life _doesn't belong to me. I can't share what isn't mine."

"In other words, feel free to ask, but don't expect you to answer if I get too personal." I stare down at my duvet and sigh. "Nice."

"Actually, it's the personal stuff—the stuff that's just about me—that I want to share with you. You want to know which of my tabloid scandals were true? I'll tell you the story behind every single one of them—on one condition."

"Please," I say, rolling my eyes. "If I was going to sell you out to the press, I would've done it by now."

"I know; that's not what I'm asking."

I look up at his face. Much to my surprise, he actually seems genuine.

"Then what?"

"I'd like you to do the same."

"Fine, but I can't imagine what you've read in the tabloids about me you could possibly want me to clarify."

"In that case, I'll go first. Did you buy rubbers thinking we'd use them tonight?"

I fake a coughing spell.

He smiles. "Seriously?"

"Not exactly." I cover my face with my hands. "Ugh! Why couldn't you start with something easy like, 'Did you really flip off those photographers?' or even 'Was it laundry day when you went running?'"

"You're stalling, Bella."

"Okay." I take a deep breath before I look at him. "Yes, I bought them to use with you. But you shouldn't have to ask me that. I told you at dinner that tonight was the first time I'd been out with a guy in years, so the fact I'm not seeing anyone else shouldn't be all that shocking."

"But were you thinking we'd use them _tonight_?"

"Honestly?" I shake my head. "No. I'm not the kind of girl who has sex on the first date."

"I see." His eyes are downcast for a moment, then he perks up as if he just had a revelation. "What about the second? I_ did_ leave and come back, so one could easily make the argument—"

I smack him on the shoulder. "Jerk."

"I'm kidding. As much as I want to, I couldn't."

"And just like that, we're back to the NDA bullshit."

"There's more to it than that, though I'd be lying if I said the NDA wasn't a huge part of it. Like I said before, it's not that I don't trust you—"

"I know, I know. There are parts of you that belong to the monarchy, and Your Royal Scepter is one of them. What about the Crown Jewels?"

"The scepter is mine, the jewels not so much." He scoots a bit closer to me and props his head up with his elbow. "Your turn."

"Hm..." I say, taking a mental inventory of His Royal Scandals. As curious as I am about the sex, drugs, and penis pictures, there's something that, given the way I'm starting to feel about him, matters to me much more. "That whole thing with Lauren Mallory and your protection officer. The night you...I mean...the night we met—"

"The night I threw up you?"

I snap my fingers and point at him. "That's would be the night. When you showed up at Esme's apartment, you said something about not wanting to be around when Lauren found out she wasn't welcome at the Palace. The next day, everyone was saying you had your bodyguard break up with her on your behalf."

"I ended things with Lauren—in person—right before I left for Afghanistan. She just had a hard time accepting that."

"Fair enough. Your turn again."

"Is your mother really making you take classes in poise, deportment, and ballroom dance before the wedding?"

"Where'd you read that?"

"Royal Bitch."

"Figures." I sigh. "She asked me to take ballroom dance lessons—that's it."

"Did you say yes?"

"Yes, assuming she can find an instructor willing to work with my schedule. I wonder where that story came from. The only person who knew about that besides my mom and me is my assistant."

"Sounds like you need a new assistant."

I shake my head. "Oh no, she'd never... I mean, her references were impeccable, and we've gotten to be pretty good friends—"

"Look, I'm not saying you should go into work Monday making accusations. Just be aware it's a possibility, and be careful what you say."

"I don't even want to think about the possibility Heidi's been selling me out to the tabloids. Anyway, she signed an NDA."

"So did Lauren—pictures of my penis _still_ ended up online, didn't they?"

"Ooh! Let's talk about your penis instead!"

"This is serious, Bella."

"I know. And believe me, I'm going to address it. But I can't do anything about it right now, and since it's my turn, I want to talk about your penis. Inquiring minds want to know—are you a show-er or a grower?"

This time, _he_ fakes a coughing spell.

"Oh, come on," I say.

"I'd say a grower, but you have to remember these things are subjective..."

It takes an extraordinary amount of restraint, but somehow I resist the urge to ask if I can hold His Royal Scepter.

"Fair enough. Your turn again."

"Do I have to stick to things I've read in gossip blogs, or can I ask whatever I want?"

I roll my eyes at him.

"What?" he asks.

"You came up with the quid-pro-quo bullshit just so you could ask about the condoms, didn't you?"

He looks at me as if this should be obvious. "Well, yeah."

"You're unbelievable, but fine. Ask whatever you want."

He doesn't miss a beat. "May I take off your robe?"

It's not a question I expected, but I don't have to think about my answer.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**Don't worry—we're going to pick up right where we left off. As usual, leave me your thoughts on this chapter, and I'll send you a snippet of the next one. A lot of people are asking if they'll be any strip billiards in coming chapters. To be honest, I haven't decided how I'm going to pay tribute to the latest royal scandal, but there's one thing you can be sure of: if the sex tape everyone's talking about really exists, you'd better believe I'm writing that shit in.**

**Also, Royal Bitch dot Net is a real website. Sometimes, I post bonus tabloid articles. **

**'til next time,**

**C**


	16. His Royal Realism

**thanks to josh and detochkina**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

**His Royal Realism**

* * *

_**Royal Bitch Exclusive:**_

_**Not-a Swan's Ex-Lover Tells All**_

It's been the question on everyone's lips ever since Prince Edward was first spotted exiting Bella Swan's office. What could he possible see in her? After much discussion, we always come to the same conclusion: Not-a must be amazing in bed.

Au contraire, mes fréres—and we have the lowdown from someone who would know.

Not gonna lie—we thought we'd have to dig pretty deep to locate one of Not-a's former suitors. After all, it's not as if there are all that many of them. Lo and behold, her lover from her university days emailed _us_—and he was more than willing to talk, provided we wrote him a large check and didn't publish his name.

Fifteen minutes and a wire transfer to someone whose name rhymes with gay-club hack later, we were on the phone with a man we'll call Joe. He claims to have met Not-a at a debate tournament.

"She was painfully shy," he told us, "but when she took the podium, she came into her own. She wasn't the prettiest girl in the room, but there was something about her. I asked her out to coffee, and we started hanging out. Eventually, we became a thing."

Yeah, yeah, yeah—but what's her personality like?

"Fearless. Driven. She's never done anything in her life that hasn't in some way brought her closer to her goals. To be honest, it could be a bit of a turn-off. There's more to life than mergers and acquisitions, you know?"

It's no secret we like to keep it classy here at Royal Bitch. As a general rule, we won't publish anything we wouldn't say in front of our founder's grandmother. Luckily for us, our founder's grandmother curses like a sailor and has a thing for gay porn. Ergo, we had no problem asking Joe to tell us about Not-a's bedroom skills.

Turns out he wasn't kidding when he said she was driven. When it comes to her sexual prowess, he likened her to a Buick.

We don't see many Buicks in The Westerlands, so we did a quick web search to get a visual. They appear to be rather—how do we put it—large. Then our founder's grandmother told us to plug "Buick" into Urban Dictionary, and...well...yeah.

So we asked Joe to clarify.

He said, "You know. It does what you need it to, but the ride is nothing special."

And that pretty much sums up Bella Swan—capable but nothing special. So what would compel His Royal Hotness to defend her honor with his fists?

Maybe our Buick perfected the buick.

**COMMENTS** (showing 12 of 2120)

**Lady in Waiting**

I wonder if he had a specific Buick in mind. When I spent a year in Washington as an exchange student, my host family drove a Buick. I thought it was nice.

**Assman 11**

My guess is an Electra. They're boxes with really big trunks, just like Not-a.

**anon**

Please. Her ex is so lying. Otherwise, he would have used his real name.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

::facepalm::

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

I can't imagine how I'd feel if one of my exes talked about me that way.

**Palace Alice**

You'll find out next week!

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Doesn't buick mean to throw up?

**Boners for Bomer**

A buick is when you suck on a penis and both testicles at the same.

**HRH Princess Edward**

Really? I learned something new today.

**Troll E McCavetroll**

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! I want to use the word of the day in a sentence!

When Lady In Waiting tried a buick, she buicked in her borrowed Buick.

**Lady in Waiting**

Fuck you. I offered to have it detailed afterwards, and you know it.

**His Royal Gayness**

I bet Prince Edward can take it ALL without puking. We already know he has no gag reflex. Remember the picture of him drinking the bong water? If that doesn't make a person throw up, nothing will.

**Boners for Bomer**

Agreed. Photographic evidence suggests Prince Edward NEVER buicks when he buicks.

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

Much to my disappointment, Edward doesn't make a move on me. After he tosses my robe onto the floor, he picks up right where we left off.

"Your turn," he says.

"Why did your grandmother pull you out of Afghanistan?"

"I'm third in line for the throne. It wouldn't bode well for the future of the monarchy if I got killed."

"If that's what she's worried about, she never should have let you go to war in the first place."

"Things change."

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

"Is she ill?"

"At her age, does it matter? By the way, I see how you sneaked in that second question."

"Please. Stupid questions don't count."

"Oh, it counts. To keeps things fair, I think I should get to go twice."

"Fine."

He nods toward my chest.

"What?"

"This..." He tugs on the bottom of my slip. "...needs to go." He flicks his wrist, raising my hemline and exposing my underwear. "Oooh—nice panties. Unfortunately, they need to go, too."

His request doesn't offend me—if anything, I'm flattered—but he's on crack if he thinks I'm taking off my underwear.

"Uh-uh," I say, shaking my head furiously. "No way."

"Please?"

"I told you I wasn't going to have sex with you tonight."

"Who said anything about sex?" He runs his hand along the outside of my thigh. "I just want to see you naked."

"Sorry." I smooth my nightie back over my hips. "Nudity's something I usually have to work up to..."

"I understand—and I'm okay with it if you just want to go topless."

I smack him on the shoulder. "Jerk."

"What? Your nightgown or whatever it is—it's made of lace."

"So?"

"So I can see right through it."

"This isn't about what you can see; it's about what you can _do_. If there's no skin-to-skin contact...uh..."

He's looking at me as if he's hanging on my every word. What he's doing to my nipple tells a whole other story.

I take a deep breath and try to focus on the conversation. "As long as certain parts stay covered, we can fool around without things getting too intense."

"So what you're saying is that if I do this..." He lowers his mouth to my breast and circles my nipple with his tongue. "... it won't make you want me to do _this._" He takes it into his mouth and suckles.

It's the only place we're touching, but somehow I feel it everywhere. My breaths become gasps and my hips move on their own.

He raises his head and smiles. "I had my doubts, but I think you're onto something."

I tug on his hair. "Get up here."

Seconds later he's on top of me. He teases my mouth with the tip of his tongue; he teases my lace-covered lips with the tip of his penis. There's a level of skill to his movements that can only come from a whole lot of practice—and for all I know, he practiced this afternoon.

I tense up.

"Don't be nervous," he says, stroking my cheek. "We don't have to do anything more than you'd usually do on a first date."

"We already have."

"Oh. Would it make you feel better to know this is different for me, too? I've never even kissed someone without an NDA and an Affidavit of Consent."

I scrunch my face at him. "Consent to what?"

"This..." He presses his hips against mine. "...and whatever else it may lead to. Things changed between us so quickly. I haven't had a chance to get the paperwork ready, so the legal stuff is going to have to wait until Monday. What I want to do to you, on the other hand..."

I study his face for evidence he's kidding.

There isn't any.

"You honestly think I'd accuse you of..." I stop myself—I don't even want to say the word. "You think I'd claim this was forced?"

"It has nothing to do with you—or even me, for that matter. It's just how we do things. The NDA protects what little privacy we have left. The Affidavit of Consent and Pre-Coital Agreement just take it a bit further."

"I see." I take a moment to try to process it all, but that won't happen as long as I'm lying beneath him. "Do you think you could...?" I push on his chest and angle my head to the side.

He looks at me the same way he did when he caught me snooping in his bedroom.

"I'm not angry with you. But I do have some questions, and it's hard for me to think with you...well..." I force a smile. "...where you are."

It doesn't matter that his face is blank as he stretches out on his back beside me—he leaves enough space between us that I know _exactly_ what he's thinking.

"Hey." I scoot over to him and nudge his face toward mine. "I meant it when I said I wasn't angry. You just caught me off-guard. This...what is it called, again?"

"Affidavit of Consent and Pre-Coital Agreement."

"Has Esme signed one?"

"Yes."

That makes me feel better. Esme would never sign anything without running it past our father, and he would never have given his blessing to her marriage if Carlisle asked her to sign something that was at all suspect. What I don't understand is why I'm only hearing about this now.

"And what exactly is it supposed to do?" I ask.

"The Pre-Coital Agreement forfeits your right to profit financially from your association with me. The Affidavit of Consent just states that you've entered into a sexual relationship with me consensually and without any coercion by the Royal Family or any members of our household. It's all very standard."

"There's no such thing as written consent to intercourse. Legally, a woman can withdraw consent at any time. You get that, right?"

"Yes. In fact, my lawyers have assured me of this. Come on, Bella. You know me well enough by now. Do you honestly think I'd ask you to sign anything that would take away your right to tell me no?"

"Then why would you even bother with it?"

He raises his hands. "Because I don't have a fucking choice!"

For a moment, I just lie there. I understand Palace life well enough to know I'll never understand Palace life, and I won't patronize him by pretending otherwise.

"I shouldn't have raised my voice." He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "I like you, Bella. Really, I do. And I don't think you've ever _tried _to piss me off—"

I snort. "That's what you think."

His smile is forced, but it's there.

"Get over here," he says, pulling me against his chest. "Remember that night we spent at my brother's? You had your first run-in with that paparazzi that morning and were blaming me for the loss of your privacy. 'I didn't ask for this,' you said.

"It got me thinking. I can't remember when I realized I was always on display. The crowds and the flashbulbs—they've just always been there. And the possibility that someone would sell us out to them? That's always been there, too.

"My mother used to tell this story about when Carlisle and I were little. We were out with her when the paps yelled something that made her cry. It happened a lot; pictures of her crying sold for more money. At dinner that night, Carlisle told her that when he grew up, he wanted to be a policeman so he could protect her. 'You can't,' I said to him. 'You have to be king.'

"My brother's has always liked to pretend we have choices. I don't know. For me, it's only ever made things harder in the long run. Tonight probably wasn't the best time for me to mention the Pre-Coital Agreement, but if I hadn't, I'd only be postponing the inevitable. I wish it was different, but it's not up to me. _Nothing _is up to me."

"Is it really that important for me to sign it?"

"That depends on you—and how you feel about me."

I lean back a bit so I can see his face. He's looking at me the same way he did when I told him I wouldn't sign the NDA. I claimed it was on principle, but mostly it was because I didn't think I could ever like him. Sometimes, I still don't.

I think I could love him.

"Okay."

* * *

**Sadly, the Royal Bitch post is based on an actual interview one of Mary Donaldson's former lovers gave shortly after she married the Crown Prince of Denmark. In it, he likened her to a Holden Commodore. **

******This chapter ended up a bit different than I imagined (I scrapped it all and started over more than once) so the teaser I sent with last chapters responses became slightly different in the finished chapter, but the general sentiment of it remained the same. The teaser I send this chapter will be more accurate; I promise. **

**************As always, thanks so much reading.**

**************C.**


	17. His Royal Fake Facebook Page

_**thanks to detochkina**_

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**His Royal Fake Facebook Profile**

* * *

**Prince Edward Finally Leaves Not-a's Apartment**

**(We Think He Got Lucky)**

Well, he couldn't stay there forever. At approximately 11 AM, the Palace Guard closed 63rd Street between Cullen and Masen to all traffic—not that it mattered. Word of Prince Edward's location got out quickly, and the crowd had grown to include locals hoping to a get a glimpse of His Highness. Once the area was secure, a black Audi sedan pulled up in front of the Not-a's building. From it emerged Prince Edward's personal secretary and former bodyguard Emmett McCarty accompanied by an unidentified blonde woman. McCarty retrieved a garment bag from the trunk of the sedan, then he and his lady friend entered the Chelsea, flanked by members of the Palace Guard.

Apparently, Prince Edward called for security and wardrobe reinforcements.

The effort was more than a little comical. It didn't matter if His Royal Highness changed his royal vestments; we were still about to witness His Royal Walk of Shame. And what a walk it was! Prince Edward appeared wearing one of his trademark dark grey bespoke suits, unshaven and without a bruise on his face. He waved and smiled at photographers as he walked the short distance from the doors to the Chelsea at the open door of the waiting Audi. To think that if he'd behaved this gracefully last night, none of this would've ever happened. So why the 180?

According to a Palace source, when word of Prince's Edward's brawl reached Prince John, he gave his son quite the tongue lashing via telephone.

Our source explained: "Prince John knows as well as anyone how invasive the press can be during what should be respected as private moments. That being said, he has always expected his boys to behave with the grace and decorum as befits their titles, and in incidents where this is Prince Edward's actions—while entirely understandable—undermine everything Prince John has worked to achieve in the years since the death of Princess Elizabeth. As the heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms of the Westerlands, Prince John understands the symbiotic relationship the Palace has with the media is very fragile and won't permit any member of the Royal Family to undermine it."

Translation: it's taken a huge PR budget and a lot of ass-kissing for Prince John to regain the pseudo-tolerance of the smallfolk, and even though he's been known to have his own outbursts and tantrums in the presence of the media, he won't tolerate this behavior being directed AT the media.

Meanwhile, additional details from Prince Edward's test drive in his low-mileage pre-owned Buick are slowly getting out. Word on the street is that Prince Edward gave Not-a a softcore porn-worthy goodnight kiss in the hallway outside her apartment—and that one of her neighbors took a picture of it. If this is true, we want to be the first to publish it.

Hear that, residents of the Chelsea? If you have the goods, we have the dough. Name your price!

**COMMENTS **(showing 14 of 768)

**Royal Watcher 1**

Have you people no shame?

**ADMIN**

uh...no?

**Lady In Waiting**

OMG, it's Royal Watcher 1! Where have you been?

**Royal Watcher 1**

This may come to a surprise to most of you, but I have better things to do with my time than read royal gossip blogs.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Funny. You never used to. Someone must finally be getting laid.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

It was the strangest thing ever. He was a mess last night—bloody and bruised. This morning, there wasn't a mark on him. No one heals that quickly.

**Lady In Waiting**

Maybe he's a parasitic crustacean?

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

I thought that was Esme.

**HRH Princess Edward**

No. Esme's a limpet. At least, that's what Prince Edward used to call her. Get it right!

**His Royal Gayness**

More like strumpet! Have you see the most recent pap pics? Her knees were so far apart, you'd think she was getting a pap smear! Will someone PLEASE teach this woman to get in and out of cars without flashing her pussy?

**Assman 11**

Some of us like the pussy. Just saying.

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

Esme's the biggest social climber since Cinderella! If that wasn't enough, now we have Not-a, too.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

They climb so much, their last name should be Ivy.

**ADMIN**

The Ivy Sisters...we like it. Thanks, guys!

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

I peek out my window at the sidewalk, hoping the paparazzi left—or at least, that we'd be back to usual dozen or so. But despite the fact Edward left hours ago, the number of photographers outside my building hasn't decreased. If anything, it seems as if there are more of them.

And there's nothing I can do about it. Even if I weren't involved with Edward, Esme marrying Carlisle all but guarantees I won't getting my privacy back any time soon. If I'm going to live under a microscope, I might as well have company.

I pull the curtain closed and flop onto my bed with my laptop. Since I have no desire to deal with the mob of photographers outside my building, it's as good a day as any to be lazy and stay in. As expected, most of my email is work-related, and almost all of it can wait— except the one from Heidi.

_I saw the mess outside your building on the news. Whoa! That's crazy. And Prince Edward staying the night at your place? You are one lucky lady! If you need anything from the office, tell me and I'll bring it to you at home. I know you usually go into the office on Saturdays, but I totally understand why you'd want to lay low. _

Uh yeah. She's the leak; I'm sure of it. And I know exactly how to prove it. I type my reply. None of it has any basis in reality, and if any of it ends up online, I'll know where it came from.

_No, thank you. I wasn't planning to go in today anyway. Edward's private secretary is here to go over a few things with me, like how to get out of cars with my knees together so the paps can't see up my skirt. Who knew deportment could be so grueling? After that, he's bringing me to the Winter Palace to meet the Queen. Wish me luck!_

After clicking send, I move on to the next message. Just what I need right now! Yet another Facebook friend request from someone I don't know. Stuff like this never happened before I met Edward. I have to assume they're coming from members of the tabloid press who hope to trick me into granting them access to my timeline.

I'd have to be an idiot to fall for this one. Even if my social circle weren't so small, I think I'd remember if I'd ever met a person named Rock Johnson.

Just for shits and giggles, I click on the guys profile. Everything about it screams sock; the hidden friend list, the generic cover photo. If that wasn't enough, the profile pic is a close-up of three hands—two male, one female—holding shot glasses. Facebook is permanent. No one past high-school age would be enough to attach something like that to his name somewhere prospective employers could see it.

I'm about to X out the window when the ring on the girl's index finger catches my eye. It looks just like the one Esme's dad had custom made for my mom when they got engaged. My mom passed it along to Esme, but Esme almost never wears it. It's way too big on her, and she refuses to have it sized because she doesn't want to lose the inscription.

I click the picture, wanting to get a better look. The tip of the girl's pinky is crooked, just like Esme's has been every since she broke it high school.

Something tells me Rock Johnson slept here last night.

I grab my phone and call Edward.

"Are you naked?"

That's how he answers.

No _hello. _

No _hey there. _

Not even a _how's paparazzi-induced house arrest? _

He leads with _are you naked?_

Nice.

"Are you serious?" I ask.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's not exactly a normal way to answer the phone. Most people warm up with a greeting, then exchange pleasantries. For example, you might ask what I'm doing."

"Bella, when a guy asks, 'What are you doing?', eight times out of ten he means, 'What are you wearing?' Which, in case you didn't know, is just a more acceptable way of asking my previous question."

"And the rest of the time?"

"He's trying to figure out you're up for phone sex."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, but seeing as it's the middle of the afternoon, I'm not naked. I also don't do phone sex."

He sighs. "That's too bad."

"Moving along, then. This is going to sound weird, but I got a friend request today, and it made me start to wonder..."

"Okay...?"

"Are you on Facebook?"

"Is there anyone who isn't?" he asks, laughing. "In fact, the last time I checked, the fan page for the monarchy was up to 22,000 likes. I know it doesn't sound like much when you take into account the population of The Westerlands, but when you consider how new the Palace is to social media—"

"I mean you personally."

"Oh. Well, yes. Like I said, there anyone who isn't?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes," he says emphatically.

He's out of his mind. It's only a matter of time before someone finds his profile and figures out who it really belongs to. His pseud alone is enough to cause a scandal. Any questionable content on his timeline would be downright disastrous.

This from a guy who gets NDAs before first kisses? Something's not right.

"I can't believe it." He laughs. "All this time I thought you had a snarky comeback for everything. It turns out all I had to do to render you speechless was confirm the existence of my fake Facebook page?"

"Given all the precautions you take in your personal life, it _is_ a bit out of character—"

"What, that I wanted to put Rock Johnson in your box? Come on, Bella. _That_ shouldn't be news to you."

After a night sharing a bed with him, I'm well aware of what he wants to do to me. But I'm determined not to think about his rocks, his johnson, or my box until I understand why he's risking his reputation for a fake Facebook page.

"If you think punching out a pap damaged what little respectability you have left, just wait until the media finds out you have a Facebook page under a pseud that sounds like something a teenaged boy would use as a euphemism for boner."

He snorts. "And you think_ I_ have a dirty mind! Besides, what makes you so sure the media will find out?"

"Because I'm not even a real programmer, and I could hack your fake Facebook page piss drunk with one hand tied behind my back."

"Wanna make a bet?"

It doesn't matter that we're on the phone—I know exactly what his face looks like right now. I can hear the cocky smile in his voice. It's really quite presumptuous of him. I'm the daughter of a dot-com millionaire. I was writing code before I could write my own name.

"Hell yes. And just so you know—I don't make bets I can't win, so you'd better think very carefully about what you're willing to gamble."

"If you can do it, I'll drop the NDA and PCA. But if you can't, I want you to sign them on the spot."

"I take you'll want to _watch_ me hack it?" I ask.

"Of course."

"Not a problem." I don't think he realizes just how easy this will be for me. "If you want to back out, this is your last chance. I'm telling you right now—you won't win this one."

"No way," he says.

"Rock Johnson, I believe we have a bet."

I can't help my laughter. Of all the aliases he could possibly use...

"What's so funny?"

"Rock Johnson? I mean, come on—could you get any pervier?"

"I could, yes."

I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Seriously. Why did you pick _that_, of all things?"

"It's me without being obviously _me_."

"Is this your way of telling me you have a rock johnson?"

"Think about it for a moment. My father's name is John, and Casterly Rock is my duchy."

"You're definitely douchey."

"This from the woman who once called me His Royal Hardness," he mutters.

"I did not!"

"You did, and though I'd be happy to remind you of exactly when you did, I'm supposed to meet my dad in two minutes. Call you later?"

"Sure. No problem."

I end the call and look down at my laptop. There's a new email—this one from my mom.

_Are you really meeting the Queen tonight? That's so exciting! Your father and I met her for the first time last week. She's surprisingly warm and not as intimidating as you'd think. Have you decided what you're wearing? Too bad you can't wear the same dress you wore last night—based on the pictures I've seen, you looked amazing in it! Whatever you choose, make sure your skirt gives you room to do a proper curtsey. You should practice in heels with a book on your head. If it falls off, you're not doing it right! And oh! I almost forgot! When you meet Her Majesty, it's 'Ma'am' as in 'glam', not 'Ma'am' as in 'harm'. Daddy and I are so happy for you! We love you so much!_

Oh dear lord. If my mom's already read somewhere that I'm meeting the Queen tonight, Heidi sure didn't waste any time. I don't generally involve my dad in how I run my department, but he needs to know what's going on with Heidi. I call his cell, but it's my mom who answers.

This won't end well.

"Bella!" she says.

"Can you put Daddy on?"

"Sure. But tell me first—did you get my email?"

"Yes, and I think you may have set a world record for most exclamation marks used in a single paragraph."

"I can't help it; I'm just so excited for you."

"Don't be. I'm not meeting the Queen."

"What?"

Either the reception suddenly got bad, or I can actually hear the wind going out of her sails.

"But...that doesn't make sense, Bella. Everything else in the article was true. Usually, they get all of it right or none of it at all—"

"I know. It's a long story, and I have every intention of filling you in. Right now, I really need to talk to Daddy."

"Hang on," she says, "I'll put you on speaker...okay, good. Can you still hear me?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Hello, Princess! Is everything okay?"

Just hearing my dad's voice makes me feel better. Once I determine they're alone, I tell him everything, ending with this morning's little email test.

"It's not that I have a problem firing her," I explain. "As much as I hate to say it, she brought this on herself. I just don't trust myself to keep it professional. Even if HR is there while I do it, I'm gonna want to cut a bitch."

"First things first," he says. "I want you out of the office. As of right now, I'm placing you on sabbatical."

"But—"

"Don't argue with me, Isabella. The Non-Disclosure Agreement Heidi signed pertains only to proprietary information about Dot Swan. I hate to break it to you, but Edward sending you flowers doesn't qualify as a trade secret."

"You're punishing _me_ for this?"

"Of course not," he says. "But the legal team needs time to figure out how to fire her in a way that doesn't open us up to a wrongful termination suit, and I _know_ you're not capable of working with her in the interim. You said it yourself: this is a situation in which you can't trust yourself not to get emotional. Well, emotion has no place in HR decisions. You can go back to work after your sister gets married. By then, we'll have taken care of it. Any negative press Dot Swan gets will be buried with all the royal wedding hysteria."

"I'll die of boredom between now and then, and you know it."

"Don't worry!" my mom chimes in. "I'll keep you busy. You still need gowns for the pre-wedding ball and the wedding reception—not to mention the fact you can't even do a simple box step."

"Great idea! Let's play Pygmalion in front of the tabloid press. Because, as you know, they already think so highly of me, and I haven't been humiliated enough already..."

She sighs. "Now you're just being melodramatic."

"I am not! In case you haven't noticed, Mom, the paparazzi camped outside my building makes it pretty hard for me to do anything without it ending up on Royal Bitch."

"You're right," she says. "No new dress is worth that kind of embarrassment."

I start to relax. "Thank you."

"So I'll send a car for you, and you can stay with Daddy and me until the wedding! Oh, it will be wonderful. Think of all the fun we can have. We'll meet with designers, and you can figure out your hair. I'm thinking a subtle color change. Maybe if we..."

As she rattles on about lowlights and long layers, I wonder what I could have possibly done to deserve this. Was I Bloody Mary in a past life?

Just when I can't take listening to her for another second, Edward calls. I can't end the conversation with my parents fast enough.

"Edward's-on-the-other-line-I-love-you-both-I've-got-to-go-bye!" I click over to Edward. "Your timing is perfect. I was on the other line with my parents; they were making me crazy."

"What's going on?" he asks.

"Long story short: my dad put me on sabbatical while he figures out how to fire Heidi, and my mom is insisting I move home until the wedding so I don't have to deal with the paps outside my building taking pictures of me coming and going from shopping trips and hair appointments. I'm kind of in shock. I mean, this morning I was an up-and-coming executive at a technology company. Now I'm on an indefinite leave of absence from work and living with my parents? Can my life get any more pathetic?"

"Technically, I'm also on an indefinite leave of absence from work and living with my parents."

Fuck.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to imply–"

"It's okay. Your mother has a point, you know. If there's one thing you need, it's a break from the paps outside your building—but that doesn't mean you have to move in with your parents."

"A hotel would be just as bad—"

"Move in with me."

"This is serious, Edward."

"So am I. I don't have any expectations, and if you'd like, you can stay in what was my mother's apartment. I just..." He sighs. "I like you, Bella. And I'd like to spend as much time with you as possible—even if it's only temporary."

I shouldn't say yes—I know this—but I can't bring myself to say no.

"I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

* * *

**Sorry I didn't get to review replies this time. Given the amount of time passed, I wanted to get the chapter out as quickly as possible. I'll make it up with this chapter; I promise. **

**So where have I been? Well, I was one of five fic authors asked to submit a piece of original fiction for the Audiogo competition, and for the past month, that's been my primary focus. ****Clips of the each story are available at audiogo DOT com SLASH uk SLASH fan_fiction_competition. Give a listen and vote for your favorite. The winner will be made available as a free download later this month. **

**Now that I've finished writing my AudioGo entry, we'll be back to weekly-ish updates here. Thanks so much for your patience while I (finally) wrote something I can call my own. **

**In this chapter, I paid homage to a few of my favorite things and made references to several real-life royal scandals. Did you catch any of them?**

**'Til next time, **

**C.**


	18. His Royal Visible Penis Line

thanks to detochkina

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

**His Royal Visible Penis Line**

* * *

If there's one thing we've learned here at Royal Bitch, it's that where there's a will, there's a price tag. Case in point: the below photos snapped of Bella "Not-a" Swan making out with His Royal Hotness Prince Edward the Ginger. Not that we have buyer's remorse—far from it. In fact, ten minutes after viewing the goods, the Royal Bitch office felt a good ten degrees hotter. We're not sure what we find more shocking—how into her Prince Edward seems or that she actually looks decent enough to justify his enthusiasm.

Despite his formal public persona, we feel as if we've gotten to know the real Prince Edward quite well over the years. Thanks to pap pictures and anonymous sources, we've seen him piss, we've seen him piss drunk, and we've seen him pissed off. We've never seen Prince Edward pin a woman against a door with his pelvis, nor have we ever been witnesses to His Royal Visible Penis Line.

Until now.

What do these new pics tell us about Prince Edward? For starters, we can now safely assume His Royal Hotness is hung like His Royal Racehorse. We know whatever he feels for Not-a goes beyond the usual best-man-trying-to-get-a-piece-of-wedding-party-ass horniness. We're also fairly sure she hasn't put out.

Take for example the third photo—the one where they're not kissing. His eyes are closed, his fingers are threaded through her hair and his forehead is pressed against hers. There's a level of intimacy in their position, but the desperation on his face tells us everything we need to know. This is a man who wants something he can't have.

The final photo shows His Royal Highness walking away from Not-a's apartment with a decided bulge in his pants. Since photos surfaced of Prince Edward relieving himself from the deck of a yacht, there's been much discussion about His Royal Penis. To settle the shower-or-grower argument once and for all, we've enlarged a pap picture of His Royal Hotness walking Not-a inside her building right before they were photographed kissing in the hallway outside her apartment. You'll notice a slight bulge in his trousers, but it's not at all pronounced. Compare it to the picture of his crotch taken after his little impromptu make-out session with Not-a, in which the outline of His Royal Hard-On is plainly visible.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a grower!

Too bad for Prince Edward Not-a seems to be missing in action. She was last sighted four days ago leaving the Chelsea with her mother. She's yet to return to her flat—or to the office. Our source at Dot Swan tells us Not-a has taken an indefinite leave of absence from work.

So where has our favorite ugly duckling been hiding? Theories abound. Here's the roundup of our Royal-Bitchy opinions:

Our editor-in-chief thinks she's been staying at her parents' country estate.

Our founder thinks she went to a spa for pre-wedding beauty treatments.

Our founder's mother thinks she's tucked away at Masen Palace singing about how the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.

Wherever Not-a is hiding, she won't be there long. With less than a week to go before the Royal Wedding, she'll resurface soon enough. Let's hope by then the crown jewels haven't turned into blue diamonds.

We're thinking we're in for a good news week. We all know what an ass Prince Edward can be when he's sexually frustrated.

**COMMENTS** (showing 5 of 453)

**HRH Princess Edward**

OMG those pics. The way he's looking at her. The way he's pressed up against her. I can't even.

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Not sure if it's the dress or that she's actually wearing make-up, but she does look good. And I don't mean good for Not-a. She looks GOOD.

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

What I don't understand is why she taunts the paps when she looks like shit, but when she's wearing heels, make-up, and a designer dress, she hides behind her hair.

**Lady in Waiting**

Is it awful that the blow-up of his crotch is the wallpaper on my iPhone?

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

If you have to ask...

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

"There was talk of opening these rooms up to the public. Someone told my grandmother it would be 'cathartic' for people and 'profitable' for my family."

"Uh...okay." I don't bother hiding my horror. "Do those reasons even belong in a sentence together?"

"Right? But this apartment belongs to me, so ultimately it was my decision. I thought she'd been gawked at enough."

"I understand."

Except I don't—not really. As bad as I've had it, what little media attention I've gotten is nothing compared to what Princess Elizabeth had to put up with. I was a kid when she died, but even _I_ remember what it was like. They called her the most photographed woman in the world with good reason. She was on the cover of every magazine at the grocery store, a regular feature on the nightly news, the subject of tell-all books that were adapted into trashy made-for-television movies.

Masen Palace Apartment 1A is a living fossil, though not in a creepy, west wing of Manderley kind of way. Her clothing, accessories, personal stuff—that's all gone. Even stripped down to bare walls and basic furniture, these rooms say more about who Elizabeth was than the tabloids ever did. Just by the wallpapers and the way one chair is more worn than the others, I can tell she watched a fair amount of TV and liked the color turquoise.

It doesn't matter that I'm with Edward; I feel as if I shouldn't be here.

"So this is it," he says, after he's finished showing me around. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like."

I open my mouth to tell him I'd be more comfortable staying with him, but he hasn't offered and I don't want him to think I'm being clingy. Funny how I feel more like I'm intruding in these rooms than I ever did the night I crashed in his apartment. Maybe it's because I feel Princess Elizabeth's presence in these rooms and she wasn't here to invite me. Maybe it's because I don't feel as if I belong here without Edward.

"Are you sure?" I ask. "Opening this apartment up for me...I don't know. It's a lot of work, and I don't want to put you out."

"I would have had to deal with all this eventually." He sighs. "Anyway, I'll leave you to settle in. If you need anything, I'll be in my apartment. I never lock the entrance from the Palace, so just let yourself in." He gives me a quick kiss on the lips. "See you later."

I anticipate myself needing a lot of things. Like Edward, for example. But first I want to get cleaned up and check out the clothes and "essentials" my mom sent over for me.

Just as I open the first bag, I hear a woman's voice from behind me.

"Hello, Miss Swan. I'm Rosalie. I'll be assisting you during your stay at the Palace. There are several items I need to go over with you; your schedule for today is quite full."

"My schedule?"

"I've spoken at length with your mother and your sister. With their input, I booked appointments with several professionals most equipped to meet our deadlines while working with the utmost discretion.

"In five minutes, Elie Saab will be arriving to discuss your gown for the pre-wedding gala. That appointment is expected to last all morning. I've allotted half an hour for lunch, after which you'll spend the afternoon with Edouard Vermeulen of Natan, who will coordinate your wardrobe for various other wedding-related events. At Prince Edward's request, I've arranged for a small staff to assist you during your stay. You'll have a dedicated dresser, but you'll share share a cook and a housekeeper with His Royal Highness—assuming you find this arrangement satisfactory."

No wonder Edward said having me here wasn't too much work for him—he outsourced all of it.

I shake my head. "No."

"His Royal Highness said you'll be taking your meals together, so a shared cook wouldn't be an issue—"

"No, I meant I don't require a staff."

"His Highness was very specific—"

"Tell me something. Since when does Ed—er—His Royal Highness even _have _a staff?"

"He made the arrangements yesterday, ma'am."

"I see." It doesn't sound like something he would do, but I'm not about to question Rosalie about it. I force a smile. "Okay, then. Let's get on with it."

**-o-O-o-**

"She lives!" Edward smiles as I sit beside him on the sofa. "How was it?"

"It was the eighth circle of hell, but can we talk about that later? I'm a bit confused as to why I have a full-time assistant and part-time domestic help."

He seems taken aback. "Would you rather have full-time domestic help? I didn't think it was necessary, but if you'd prefer—"

"I'd _prefer_ to do things myself."

"I understand—I'm the same, you know. But this week is going to be hectic, I thought a little help wouldn't hurt."

"I can keep up. I mean, it's not as if I'm working right now."

"Really?" He folds his arms across his chest and turns his body so he's leaning against the armrest. "Then what would _you _call the itinerary Esme and Rosalie have laid out for you?"

"Idiotic, but I doubt it will require much effort from me. Besides, hiring temporary staff seems like more trouble than it's worth."

"They aren't temporary. After the wedding, I'll be expected to maintain my own household." He shrugs. "Figured with you staying here, I might as well bring people on now."

"Oh." That it wasn't solely for me makes me feel better, and I'm able to relax.

"Eighth circle of hell, huh? So dress shopping was as bad as you thought it would be?"

"It was worse." I tuck my legs beneath me and turn so I'm facing him. "How do you do it?"

"What?"

"Remember all the rules?"

"No one ever lets me forget them. What happened?"

"My gowns for the ball and the reception?" I roll my eyes, sighing. "According to Rosalie, they should be dark but not back. They can't show too much skin, but they can't make me look frumpy. Then there were my mother's specifications. One-shouldered or strapless are out because they wouldn't look right with a sash."

He wrinkles his forehead. "Why would you need to worry about a sash?"

"Where else would I put my Royal Order?"

His eyes shift. "Did I miss something?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I told Rosalie that my mom must have me confused with Esme and that I don't have to worry about these things because I do not now, nor will I ever, have a Royal Order."

"You never know. When Esme becomes Queen, she could create The Order of Resisting the Urge to Murder One's Vacuous Female Relatives."

"I'd only be eligible for _that_ one if I manage not to kill my mother. Not gonna lie, that's looking less and less likely."

He laughs. "Did you manage to find anything to wear?"

"I did. I'm not sure I can pull either of the dresses off, but everyone who saw me in them seemed to disagree." I shrug.

"I'm sure you'll look great."

"Something tells me the alternative is not an option."

He pulls me against him and kisses the top of my head. "We have about half an hour before dinner..."

"Ooh. Want to make out?"

"What I want to do to you requires way more than thirty minutes. However..." He picks up his MacBook from the coffee table hands it to me. "Unless you're all talk, that should be plenty of time for you to hack into my Facebook account."

"Piece of cake," I say, opening it. There's a browser window on top; one tab is gmail, the other is Amazon.

"I'm going to sign you out of gmail, is that okay?"

"Of course. Can't have you cheating."

When I'm back to the gmail login screen, I click the link to reset his password. His back-up email is partially obscured, but I can see enough to know it's an Apple .me address with the same user ID as his gmail. I open a new tab and pull up Facebook. When I get to the logon screen, I enter his Apple email and enter a dummy password. It brings up his profile picture and a box to re-enter his password.

Jackpot.

"Oh, I won't need to cheat. I _will_, however, need to borrow your cell phone."

He narrows his eyes at me.

"You didn't put limits on _how_ I hack you," I remind him.

"True." Sighing, he hands me his phone.

Two calls to Amazon later, I'm looking at Edward's account information—address, credit card numbers, all of it. I take a screenshot of it then dial AppleCare. Though the tech support genius comments that I don't sound like an Edward, it doesn't stop her from reseting the password to His Royal AppleID for me. Once I'm logged into Edward's .me email account, I head back over to Facebook and click the "I forgot my password" link.

After I've logged in and changed his Fake Facebook name from Rock Johnson to Anita Johnson, I hand his MacBook back to him.

"Done."

He looks down at the screen in disbelief. "I never thought you'd be able to do this...I mean, I wouldn't have made the bet if I thought there was even a chance you could..."

"And I wouldn't have accepted the bet if I thought there was a chance I _couldn't._"

"Yeah," he says, keeping his eyes on his MacBook. After a moment, he slams it shut and gets up from the couch.

"Aw, come on. Don't be a sore loser."

"I'm _not_!"

"Then why are you stomping off in a toddler-esque temper tantrum?"

"Because I have things to do."

I turn up my palms and my eyes to the ceiling. "Like what?"

"Like call my lawyer. Can you see yourself out? I'll have a plate sent to you next door if you're hungry."

"Wait. Seriously?"

"Goodnight, Bella."

I just sit there, frozen in disbelief. After a while I realize he's not coming back—at least, not any time soon.

Then I'm just pissed off. I stomp my way through the worn Palace corridor with my face in flames and my eye twitching. After pausing in front of the grand double doors to Apartment 1A, I decide to keep going. The person I need most right now is physically just as close as His Royal Petulance, and _she_ doesn't have red hair and a desperate need for an attitude adjustment.

When I reach the door to Esme's apartment, I press on the antique door level, not really expecting it to open. But it does, so I let myself in.

"Esme? Carlisle?" I walk through the living room, down the hall leading to the bedroom. "Anyone home?"

"Bella!" Esme calls. "I'm in the dressing room."

I wind through the bedroom suite into the closet so big it's been given bonafide room status to find Esme sitting at her dressing table.

She smiles when her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "I was going stop by 1A as soon as we finished up, but it's great that you're here now. I'd love to hear your input, too." She gestures to Rosalie, who's in the process of unlocking a large wheeled case. "I have a decision to make."

"Quite a big one," Rosalie says.

When she opens the doors to the case and I catch a glimpse of what's resting on its felt-lined shelves, I can't believe my eyes.

I also think if I stare too long, I may go blind.

"Seriously? What, did you order the crown jewels to go and have them super-sized?"

"One of the perks," Esme says, laughing. "I was shocked when Her Majesty said I could borrow whatever I wanted for the wedding-related white-tie functions. After the tiara debacle..." She rolls her eyes.

Tradition dictates a commoner marrying into the royal family wear a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair going into the cathedral. Toward the end of the ceremony, it's replaced with a tiara. Since Esme's allergic to orange blossoms, she decided to skip that part and wear a tiara for the entire ceremony. In fact, her veil was designed around the tiara she had in mind. It didn't occur to Esme that this was something for which she had to get Queen Charlotte's approval, and when Her Majesty found out, she sent Esme several irate texts.

Why Edward ever felt compelled to teach his grandmother how to use the data features on her mobile, I'll never understand—the last thing Queen Charlotte needed was another means through which to send Her Royal Nastygrams.

Rosalie slides a tray of tiaras from the case. "Which would you like to try first?"

"Yay!" Esme bounces up and down in her seat, clapping.

I look at Rosalie. "Is having the maturity of a four-year-old a prerequisite for Palace residency?"

Esme picks up a box of tissues and throws it at me.

"Hey!" I say, ducking.

"Don't ruin my fun, Bella." Esme turns to Rosalie. "The rubies, please."

Rosalie pins it to Esme's hair, then steps away, giving me my first look at my sister in one of Queen Charlotte's tiara.

All I can do is stare.

"You're starting to make me nervous." She brings her hand down onto the table and sighs. "I _knew_ I couldn't pull this off. Fuck! I look like a kid playing dress up, don't I?"

"Oh, no, Esme. You look like a queen."

"Really?"

I know the look on her face all too well; I've seen it a lot lately when I look in the mirror. It never occurred to me she could ever feel as inadequate as I do.

I walk up behind her and rest my hand on her shoulder. "Really."

Right away, she relaxes.

"Now, quick. Take it off before I start curtsying to you."

Her eyes widen. "Ooh! You should put one on, too."

"The only crown jewels that interest me are the ones in Edward's pants."

Somewhere behind me, Rosalie snorts.

"Please?" Esme asks in her little-girl voice that works on everyone but me.

"No. It's weird enough that I'm living in 1A. Trying on a tiara..." I struggle with how to explain what I'm feeling. That as comfortable as I am with Edward, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with his life. "I don't know. It's a bit much."

"What if Rosalie puts one on, too?" she asks.

"I will not!" Rosalie says. "Tiaras and livery are incompatible."

"Good thing you're not in uniform, Rose." Laughing, Esme turns to me. "Please? It'll be like when we used to dress up in Mom's jewelry."

I'm not comfortable with it, but I can't bring myself to say no to her.

"Okay," I concede.

The next thing I know, Rosalie is placing a platinum and diamond tiara on my head.

"My god, this is heavy." I look over at Esme as Rosalie arranges my hair around the elastic band around the back of the tiara. "Better you than me," I tell her.

"I'm told you get used to it." Esme moves aside so I can see myself in the mirror.

For a moment, I just stare at myself. Wearing it is different than I thought it would be. The woman I see in the mirror isn't the me I'm used to seeing. It's the quietly confident, sophisticated woman my mother tells me I could be if I'd let myself. I always thought she was full of shit, but now I'm not so sure.

"So?" Esme asks. "What do you think?"

Edward answers from across the room. "I think she looks amazing. It suits her."

Startled, I whip my head around in the direction of his voice. The tiara flies off my head and lands on the floor a few feet away.

"Oh well," he says, shrugging. "It was nice while it lasted." He turns to Esme. "May I borrow your sister for a moment?"

"Are you bringing her back?" she asks.

He smiles. "Not if I have any say in it."

"Bye, Esme." I give her a quick hug then follow Edward out of Esme's apartment.

We walk through the Palace corridor in silence, stopping in front of 1A.

"May I come in for a moment?" he asks.

I shrug as I push the door open. "It's technically your apartment."

His demeanor changes the moment we're officially alone.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you didn't deserve that. I should never have wagered something that wasn't mine to give."

"It's okay. I understand if you want to go back on it."

"I don't. I can't make promises, but I want to _try_ to honor my end of the bargain—"

He stops talking. I imagine it's hard for him to produce words with my tongue in his mouth. Just when it starts to feel amazing, he cups my face and gently pushes my mouth away from his.

"You don't know what that's doing to me," he says.

"Then tell me."

He pushes his hips forward so I can feel His Royal Hardness.

I smile. "I'd like to do a whole lot more to you than that."

"I know." He sighs. "I think I should go back to my apartment now."

"Okay," I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

"What's on your agenda for tomorrow?"

"Eight hours of dance lessons."

"Come see me when you're done?"

"Sure."

"Goodnight, Bella." He leans forward and kisses me.

Just as I'm about to open my mouth, he pulls away. A moment later, I'm by myself, leaning against one of the turquoise-colored walls in the foyer of Masen Palace Apartment 1A.

The problem is that I don't know how I got here.

**-o-O-o-**

Sir Alec, the guy charged with the enormous task of teaching me to dance, is more formal than any member of the Royal Family I've met. I've known him less than five minutes, but already I can tell he lives and breathes propriety. If that wasn't intimidating enough on its own, according to Rosalie, he was knighted for his incredible courage on the dancefloor.

Now that I'm his pupil, he's going to need it.

"Have you ever danced before?" he asks.

"My mom forced me to take two years of ballet at Kings Landing Academy of Performing Arts."

He claps his hands together in front of his chest. "Wonderful. This shouldn't be hard for you then."

"Remember how they used to advertise they could make a dancer out of anyone?"

"Yes."

"I'm the reason they stopped saying that."

"Oh."

"Unfortunately, you've been given an impossible task."

"I don't think so. Childhood ballet classes are nothing like learning ballroom one-on-one with an instructor."

"I can't even do the merengé!"

He doesn't even crack a smile. "That's fine. We won't be working on Latin dances anyway."

Has this man never seen _Dirty Dancing_?

"We may only have a week," he continues, "but the fact you _want_ to learn to dance is a huge mark in your favor."

"Except I don't want to learn ballroom. I just don't want to embarrass myself in front of millions of television viewers, and unfortunately, that means I have to know my way around a dancefloor."

"You must be kidding." He takes a few steps away from me and gestures to the room around us. "Look at where you are—the parquet floors, the chandeliers, the carved walls, the huge scope of it all. If that's not enough to impress you, think of the history this room has seen—a history of which you'll soon be part."

"I think you have me confused with Esme. _She's_ the one about to marry the heir to the throne. Grace, poise, the ability to walk down a flight of steps wearing an evening gown and five-inch heels—these are her attributes, not mine. "

"Oh, I know exactly whom I'm talking to. The question is, do _you_?"

Where did my mom find this guy? He's batshit crazy.

"You've known me five minutes. Don't you think it's a bit presumptuous to assume—"

"You're not in competition with your sister."

"Because I took myself out of the running years ago when I realized I couldn't win."

"You can do anything Esme can. Differently, yes—but just as well."

"This is fabulous," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Tell me something: how much is my mother paying you to give me this pep talk? What did she do, write it all out for you and have you memorize it?"

"I've never had the privilege to interact with Mrs. Swan, but if her offspring is any indication, I'm sure she's a lovely person."

Did he just snark at me?

"Now," he says, clapping his hands together, "shall we begin?"

"Absolutely." I never thought I'd be enthusiastic about dance lessons, but this conversation needs to end before I throttle him.

"Let's start by working on your curtsy."

"Oh, we can skip that. I curtsy like a champ. You wouldn't believe all the time I spent on my knees when I first met Edward."

His eyes widen.

"No, no, not like that. I meant that whenever I thought I'd get a break, he'd just keep popping up—and he can be so cocky and demanding. It was easier just to suck it up and do it. I didn't really know him back then, so I had no idea he hates it when people do that for him. Believe me, I wouldn't have bothered if I'd known—I mean, it's not like _I _get off on it. To be honest, I think it's repulsive."

By the time I finish, Sir Alec's face is bright red. I'm just not sure why.

I sigh. "Never mind."

"Perhaps it would be better if we started with the waltz."

With Sir Alec barking at me and clapping beats, I practice a simple box step for what feels like an eternity. Just when I start to believe I'll spend the rest of my life moving without actually _going _anywhere, he walks toward me.

"Do you think you have it?" he asks.

"I had it half an hour ago."

"Then you're ready." He takes one of my hands in his and lays the other on his shoulder. "Step back with your right foot and follow my lead... _And_ right-left-together. Right-left-together..."

The pressure he puts on my hand is just enough for me to know where to move and when to turn. Just as I'm starting to feel confident, I see Edward out of the corner of my eye.

Barefoot and wearing glasses, he's leaning against the wall eating Cheetos from the bag. He sees me watching him and, with his eyes fixed on mine, slowly sucks the orange powder from each of his fingers.

I trip over my feet but somehow manage not to fall on my face.

"Good!" Sir Alec says. "That's exactly how you do it—no one will notice if you flub a bit as long as you keep dancing."

Yeah, right. Then why is Edward laughing his ass off?

I lift my hand from Sir Alec's shoulder just long enough to give Edward the finger.

He's still laughing as he mouths the word, "Sorry."

Long after Sir Alec and I move onto the foxtrot, Edward's still watching us from the perimeter of the room. I'm not sure what surprises me more—that he cares enough to watch or that he does so without any visible signs of mockery. More than anything, he seems proud of me.

**-o-O-o-**

"Ugh!" I flop onto the bed beside Edward. "That man."

He laughs. "I hated dance lessons, too. Always wanted to get on to the good stuff, like riding and shooting—and don't think Sir Alec didn't know it. He'd have me practice dance steps with a foil in my hand. To be honest, I'm surprised he didn't show up at your lesson with foot positions mapped out in TPS reports or something. It's not as if I didn't tell him you were a software developer."

"You hired him?"

"Well...yeah. I thought that was obvious."

I'm not sure how I feel about this. Agreeing to let my mom is one thing. She may be borderline psychotic when it comes to this stuff, but deep down I know she only does it because she loves me and worries about me and doesn't want me to be alone. I've known Edward three weeks. He has no reason to care

Unless he's afraid I'll embarrass him.

I take a deep breath. I don't think I'll like his answer, but I ask anyway. "Why?"

"Why did I think it was obvious?"

"No, Duke of Douchiness. Why did you hire them?"

He pulls back as if he's been slapped. "Duke of Douchiness? You seriously just called me Duke of Douchiness?"

"Why not? Unlike Your Royal Highness, it's a title you've actually earned."

"Take it back."

"Take it back? What are you, ten?"

"You call me the Duke of Douchiness then have the audacity to doubt _my_ maturity?"

"Answer the question, Edward."

"You're unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "I don't understand why you're pissed at me. You didn't have a problem with any of this when your mother was going to arrange it—"

"That was different."

"I don't see how."

"She wants what's best for me. Something tells me you're doing this because it's what's best for _you_."

"Calling in staff to help you get ready for the wedding has _nothing_ to do with me."

"So you're saying you want to have me on your arm as I am? Because your actions imply—"

"I want something I know will never happen, so there's no use talking about it. I'm not trying to patronize you, but you have no idea what you're getting into. There are going to be TV crews at the reception—"

"I'm aware of this."

"Don't you get what that means? Everything that happens that night is permanent."

"So?"

"Haven't you been humiliated enough?" He covers his face with his hand and sighs.

"I don't take something on if I'm not sure I'll succeed."

His hands drop onto the mattress beside him as his eyes meet mine. "I don't want you to succeed. I want you to shine."

"For you or for me?"

"For us," he says, reaching out to me.

I smack him away as I roll out of his bed. This time, it's me who stops out of the room.. For the second time in as many days, I storm off to my sister's apartment. I find her sitting at her dressing table brushing her hair.

"Did you know Edward paid for my royal makeover?

"Hi, Esme," she says, imitating my voice. "How are you holding up with only three days to go before you get married to a prince in front of two billion television viewers?" She answers in her usual tone, "Oh, I'm not stressed at all. Thanks so much for asking." She rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. "I don't have the energy to handle one of your hissy fits right now. As you can see, I've got my hands full."

"Good thing you don't need your hands to talk. Now answer me."

She sighs. "Yes, I knew. Edward asked if I thought you'd be offended. I told him you wouldn't be."

"Esme!"

She holds up her index finger. "It didn't bother you when Mom was going to take care of it. I really don't see what the difference is."

"Mom's just being Mom. She's not ashamed to be seen with me."

"Neither is Edward."

"Then why do I need one-on-one sessions with Elie Saab, that dude from Natan, and the royal dance instructor?"

"God, Bella. Would you please get over yourself?"

"You're telling me to get over myself? You—the person so ashamed of being new money, she's forcing pretensions onto her family who has always loved her unconditionally—"

"Four years, five months, and eight days."

"What?"

"That's how much time passed between the day I signed the Affidavit of Consent and the day Carlisle allowed himself to be seen in public with me—it took that long. Four years, five months, and eight days. Then there was the two years, three months, and one week I spent with Sir Alec learning how to walk, how to stand, how to sit, when to bow my head, when to curtsy, when never to bow my head or curtsy, when to speak, when to wave—all things I had I to master before Carlisle would be allowed to propose to me. And Daddy had to foot the bill for all of it—"

"Daddy can afford it."

"That's not the point. Are you really so self-absorbed you can't see what this means? Edward is _that_ serious about you."

"Please. We both know Edward's a serial monogamist. Something tells me he's _always_ serious when he starts a new a relationship."

She sighs. "Have you signed yet?"

"He says I don't have to."

"If you keep seeing him, eventually, you will have to sign—the agreements he's mentioned and a whole lot more."

"He and I have come to an understanding about this."

"It's not up to him."

"So he claimed. But if that were true, why did he drop the whole NDA, PCA, and AoC thing once I hacked his fake Facebook page?"

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," she mutters, slamming her hair brush onto the table. She rises from her chair and moves toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business."

I give her a head start then make my back to Edward's apartment. I don't want to continue my fight with Esme in the palace corridor, but I know full well that Edward won't exclude me from a conversation with Esme, regardless of her feelings on the matter. Much to my surprise, I find him alone at the piano. It's the first time I've heard him play, so I linger by the entrance to the drawing room and listen.

I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. Sure, he told me he played, but he made it seem as if it was something he enjoyed but wasn't particularly good at.

He lied.

Of course, he's not good. _Good _is inadequate.

He's fucking gifted.

Without saying a word, I walk into the drawing room and sit beside him on the piano bench. His eyes are closed, but it doesn't matter—I can tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. He's pouring all of it into the piece he's playing.

I wait until he's finished before I say anything.

"I take it my mother knows about the people you hired."

"Yes. It came up when I called her to introduce myself. Your father was in the room, so she put me on speakerphone."

I laugh. "Typical. How did they react?"

"Your mother was ecstatic. Your father gave a detailed description of the contents of his gun collection, then asked me what my intentions are toward you. I assured him they were honorable and that I wouldn't dream of taking advantage of your proximity while you were staying here. He said was he glad to hear it; your mother said she didn't believe me for a second."

I can't help my smile. "She won't accept that I'm here because I didn't want to move back home—she's convinced you and I are _that_ serious. Even when I tell her point blank it isn't like that with us, she refuses to believe me."

"Because she's smart enough to know you're lying." He slides his hand beneath my shirt and cups my breast. His thumb moves back and forth across my lace-covered nipple. "It may not be 'like that' yet, but we both know where it's headed."

"Edward..." My voice comes out in a breathy whisper. "There's a lot we need to talk about, and I can't think when you touch me like that."

"Don't think. Just let it all go. God knows I have."

He pinches; I gasp.

"There's so much I should be doing right now, so much expected of me. But with you here, none of it matters. All I can think about is how it will feel to be inside you, the way you'll look, the sounds you'll make. In my mind, I've had you so often and in so many ways, sometimes I forget we've never gone further than this. That I don't know your taste or your heat, that I've never done this to you..." He pulls my bra cup down and flicks his tongue across my nipple. "...here." His hand moves underneath my skirt, and his fingers trace the edge of my panties. "God, you're already so wet." He tugs the fabric to the side and brushes his fingertips against my flesh.

I lean into his hand. "Please."

He slides onto the floor beside me. "Lean back against the bench."

When I do, my legs fall open. He kneels between them and pushes a finger inside me.

"So hot," he whispers.

He strokes inside of me, then adds another finger.

My hips move off the bench.

"That's it," he says. "Just like that."

Without changing the rhythm of his fingers, he starts to rub me with his thumb.

My breaths become moans.

"Don't hold back. I want to hear you."

The tension's so intense, I start to shake. Just when I think it's all more than I can take, I come. He keeps his fingers inside me long after I've stopped pulsing around them. He pulls me into his arms and carries me to his bedroom. As much as I want to stay up to talk, I'm too exhausted.

I fall asleep to him whispering that I'm beautiful.

* * *

It's been a while, no?

I had fic-related angst, and it took me a while to get over it. A day later Hurricane Sandy hit. Have I mentioned I'm from New Jersey? Half of my town is still without power, but I'm not about complain. If there's one thing the past week has done for those of us in the Northeast, it's put things in perspective. It was hard to focus on writing with everything that's going on, but today is my birthday and as many of you know, I always update on my birthday. For those of you who've been affected by the storm, I hope this little bit of frivolity helped take your mind off it for a bit. I know I enjoyed writing it.

Be safe and stay strong.

xoxo,

Colleen

P.S. Reviews are like birthday cards.


	19. His Royal Jizm

thanks to detochkina and lj summers

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

**His Royal Jizm**

* * *

**Prince Edward Uses Charity Event to Defend His "Buick"**

We can't say we didn't know—at least, not entirely. Sure, we got a press release from the Princess Elizabeth Memorial Foundation about the large grant awarded to The Road to Health, an organization that provides free transportation to cancer patients who have no other means of getting to the hospital for treatments. And yes, it did say Princess Eleanor would present a fleet of vehicles at a ceremony somewhere in South Harrenhal.

We're going to be honest here. Ever since our founder drunkmailed Masen Palace that he'd found Jesus and vowed henceforth to use Royal Bitch's influence for good instead of evil, we been receiving dozens of press releases from Masen Palace each day. We glance at them from time to time, but we never actually publish them, and we don't consider this a black mark on our integrity. No reasonable person could expect a man to honor promises he made while drunk and under the misapprehension his penis had turned green.

This isn't to say we ignore official news from the Royal Family. In fact, our intern remembers reading the press release but not passing it on to an editor for assignment because she didn't think our readers would care. As she explained, Princess Elizabeth is dead, cancer is depressing, Princess Eleanor is boring, and Harrenhal is a ghetto. We agree, so we're sparing her the rack.

The fact is, no one could have possibly predicted His Royal Hotness Prince Edward the Ginger would appear in his aunt's place, or that he'd arrive driving an SUV provided by The Westerlands Division of General Motors.

Still not interested? This is where we point out Prince Edward has never made an official appearance without other members of the royal family. If that's not enough to intrigue you, it's time we mentioned the SUV in question was a...

...wait for it...

Buick.

For real. We couldn't make this shit up.

His Royal Hotness slid out from behind the wheel of a 2013 Buick Enclave wearing a dark blue bespoke suit and a crisp, white dress shirt he'd left unbuttoned at the collar. From there, he strode directly to the stage, where he proceeded to hand his car keys to a representative from The Road to Health. Then he took the podium.

We're going to go out on a limb and say he ditched the royal speech writers for this one. Here's what he said:

"The Princess Elizabeth Memorial Foundation has partnered with General Motors to provide The Road to Health with seventy-five 2013 Buick Enclaves to add their fleet. I've no doubt these vehicles will provide reliability and comfort to patients in need. I've had my Buick for a few weeks now, and I can say with confidence I can't imagine sliding in and out of anything else."

Coincidence?

Or was His Royal Hotness trying to tell us something?

Speaking of Buicks, Not-a is still MIA. Regardless of where she is, with less than twenty-four hours before the pre-wedding festivities begin, we suspect her reappearance is forthcoming.

**COMMENTS **(9 of 2489)

**HRH Princess Edward**

So he's into her. We knew this. Nothing in this post is news, noteworthy, or particularly interesting.

**Royal Watcher1**

A worthwhile charity received a large donation. That's noteworthy and interesting.

**HRH Princess Edward**

Sorry. If the Princess Elizabeth Foundation donated fresh panties to the women in the audience who squeed at the sight of His Royal Hotness, that would be noteworthy and interesting. Buicks are boring, and if I wanted to read real news, I'd go to Reuters, not Royal Bitch. The only interesting thing about this is we now know Prince Edward reads gossip sites. I've always wondered about that.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

I feel sorry for you, Royal Watcher1. Really, I do. For years I thought you just needed more fiber in your diet, but you're beyond that. All the X-Lax in the Rectal Needs aisle of Drug$mart couldn't dislodge the stick up your ass.

**Lady In Waiting**

Ha! Never imagined his sense of humor was so wicked. Love it.

**swatchdogs-N-dietcokeheads**

Are you ever going to lay off the Not-a bit? It's not applicable given how she looked the night they made out in front of her apartment.

**Boners for Bomer**

Prince Edward is making official royal appearances. There goes the monarchy.

**Leisure Suit Larry**

Edward does something productive? This goes WAY beyond the monarchy. I think four horsemen just rode past my door.

**-o-O-o- **

No matter how many times I go over last night in my head, they still don't make sense to me, but not in a how-did-I-end-up-in-Prince-Edward's-bed-wearing-nothing-but-my-underwear kind of way. I know exactly how that happened. Given our chemistry, that was just a matter of time. But what he _said_. The more I think I about it, the more I realize he told me nothing besides that he wants me.

It's nothing he hasn't said before.

I wiggle out of his arms to get a look at his face.

Yawning, he opens his eyes. "Good morning."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay." He gives me a groggy smile. "You can do whatever you want to me."

Though Edward and I slept together that night at my flat, we didn't wake up together. The next day, I got out of bed early to make sure Marcus didn't need anything, thus avoiding the whole morning-after thing. It's awkward times a million, but there are some things I need to know.

"About last night—"

"I'm sorry, Bella."

That's all it takes for me to relax. "Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am. I was so worried that you thought it was okay, that you'd try that crap again at some point."

"What?" He turns onto his side and props his head up on his elbow. "I'm not going to pretend it was appropriate, but you're making it sound like it some awful ordeal."

"In a way, it was. Look, I know I can't handle it all on my own, and though I have nothing against outsourcing, you should have asked."

"Why should I have asked when you were practically begging me?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"'Please, Edward. Please, please...'" he says, imitating my voice. "I might have taken liberties I shouldn't have, but don't even try to pretend you didn't enjoy it. You came so hard I lost feeling in my fingers."

I can't help my laughter.

"What?"

"You're talking about fingering me?"

His eyes dart from side to side. "Well...yeah."

"I was talking about the team of people you're paying to make me more presentable..."

He smiles. "Oh, I'm _not_ sorry I did that."

"I swear you're sociopathic. Going behind my back to hire image consultants? No biggie. Asking me to spend hours on end learning to curtsy in heels? Eh. Just another day ending in 'y' at Masen Palace. Giving me the best orgasm of my life? _This _is what compels you to apologize?"

"Sweetheart..." He sighs. "I'm trying to do right by you."

It makes no sense to me, but he looks sincere, so I let it drop. Besides, he and I are always talking. It's lying half-dressed in his bed that doesn't happen everyday. That we probably don't have a future beyond this weekend doesn't matter. I don't want to think about that right now.

So I just look at him. The tousled auburn hair that's growing out of a cropped, army-issued cut. The lighter red hair on his chest that gets darker and thicker as it disappears beneath the drawstring-waistband of his sleep pants. The stubble on his jawline. The cleft of his chin. The lips I want to feel against mine.

It's been forever since he's kissed me. With everything he did last night, the so-called liberties he took, he didn't kiss me. Other than that night at Esme's, he's _never_ kissed me. It's always me kissing him, and it always takes a while for him to get into it. It probably doesn't mean anything. Then again, he could have major intimacy issues. He could also have oral herpes.

There's only one way to find out.

"You know how you can do right by me?" I wrap my arm around his neck and tug his face toward mine. "Kiss me."

He gently nudges me away. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I won't let it stop at kissing you."

"I'm okay with that."

"I'm not." His voice is quiet but firm.

I lower my eyes, hoping to hide my disappointment.

"I probably won't see you later. I'm taking over my aunt's appearances this week. It's going to be a long day." He looks over at the alarm clock on the nightstand and cringes. "Fuck. I needed to be in the shower twenty minutes ago."

"Then get in the shower." I stare at the bedding and try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "And don't worry about me. I'll adjust my expectations." My schedule today doesn't run any later than usual, but something tells me it won't feel that way.

The mattress dips as he gets out of bed. I wait until I hear the water running in the bath before I gather my clothes and head back to his mother's apartment to shower. It's not easy, but somehow I manage to hold it together until I'm surrounded by turquoise walls and the antique door lever has clicked into place behind me.

By the time I reach the bedroom, I'm a snotty, blubbering mess. What the fuck is up with him? Last night he's telling me how much he wants me, how it's all he thinks about it. This morning he's sorry and won't even kiss me? I'd have been better off staying in my flat and braving the paps all week. At least with them, I know it's just business. I can _handle _business—it's what I do best.

And it's about time I got back to it.

I reach for my phone and email my dad.

_I want to go back to work._

Five minutes later, I read his reply.

_Just another week, Princess__. Hang in there._

He's called me _Princess_ for as long as I can remember, but it's never felt condescending until now. I give myself exactly an hour to wallow—any longer and I'd start to lose respect for myself. Then I get up, get showered, and get on with my day. When I finally make it to the ballroom, I'm twenty minutes late.

"I'm sorry, Sir Alec. I had a rough morning."

From somewhere behind me, a woman answers,"The time you kept us waiting should have been more than enough time to properly dry your hair."

With my hand on my still-damp ponytail, I turn in the direction of the voice. I'm not sure whom I expected to find, but it sure as hell wasn't The Queen's younger sister. But here she sits on an armchair covered in gilt and red velvet, legs crossed at the ankle and hands folded in her lap.

Princess Eleanor was the Edward of her generation. The first modern-day spare to gain notoriety, she caused scandal after scandal. When Queen Charlotte forced her to choose between her title and her twice-divorced fiancé, Eleanor famously put family duty before love.

Some would call my unusually deep curtsy a display of obeisance, but as I lower myself toward the parquet floor, it's not out of a sense of obligation or even because I'm fairly sure she's here to test me and I want to make a good impression. This is a woman who sacrificed her own happiness for the good of her family, and I respect her for it.

"I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness."

"When one keeps others waiting, it sends a certain message. Do you want to give the impression your time is of more value than that of others?"

I shake my head. "No, Ma'am."

"That's rather disappointing." Her eyes shift to Sir Alec. "This is going to require more work than I thought." She looks back at me. "I've been at least twenty minutes late to every function I've attended for the past sixty years. However, I've always been properly groomed. The smallfolk would wait forever for a mere glimpse of us, and it's our responsibility to make it worth their while. This means your clothing should be impeccable, your makeup should be flawless, and your damn hair should be dry."

I'm not sure how any of this pertains to me, but I'm not about to argue. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Her Royal Highness will be joining us this morning," Sir Alec explains.

I smile as sweetly as possible. "How kind of you, Ma'am. Thank you."

"Nicely done—and without a hint of sarcasm. If I didn't know better, Not-a Swan, I'd almost believe that was genuine."

My smile stays in place, but my voice is steel. "I'd prefer it if you called me Bella, Ma'am."

"And I'd prefer it if you called me Nell." She turns to Sir Alec. "Well, let's get on with it, then. At this rate, I'll be dead before we get to the waltz."

**-o-O-o-**

When Sir Alec told me Nell was planning to join us this morning, he left out a crucial detail: Nell is planning to be a bug up my butt for the rest of the week.

She accompanies me to lunch in 1A where liveried footmen appear out of nowhere to serve us. As we eat, she watches me in such a way it's clear she's evaluating both my table manners and my ability to make polite conversation. Finally—a test I _know_ I'll pass with flying colors. I may not be an expert on royal protocol, but I wasn't raised by wolves.

After lunch we adjourn to my "private quarters" for the last of my pre-wedding wardrobe fittings. Five minutes later, I'm stripped down to my underwear in a room full of strangers. If that wasn't awkward enough, my panties have _baise-moi _written across the butt. _Fuck me_ is right—I knew I shouldn't have let my mom talk me into letting her buy me all new clothes for my week at the Palace.

I keep my eyes on the floor until it's time to step into my bridesmaid's dress. It's white, of course—for as long as anyone here can remember, couples and their close friends have dressed alike for the wedding ceremonies, hoping to confuse any evil spirits who might wish them ill. Even though I hate how I look in white, Esme refused to break tradition, claiming she didn't want any more wedding-related arguments with Her Majesty. It's total bullshit. Get my sister drunk enough, she'll freely admit she's superstitious.

The built-in corset closes around my ribcage as the zipper slowly makes its way up my back. I pig out on carbs when I'm stressed, and the past few weeks have been _very _stressful. I wouldn't be surprised if I've put on a little weight since my last fitting. Even so, we're talking maybe five pounds. There's no real reason for me to be so nervous about this—I mean, other than the fact the entire world is going to see me in this dress.

My eyes are on the floor as I step into my shoes.

"I'm assuming those have been adequately broken in for her?" Nell asks.

"Yes, Ma'am," my dresser answers.

There's silence as I study my reflection, but I can feel everyone's eyes on me. Just when I'm about to crack, I hear the designer's heavily accented voice from somewhere behind me.

"What do you think of the dress, Ma'am?"

"It's awful—completely obscene."

What is she talking about? The silhouette is slender, but the cut is pretty modest. I turn to the side so I can see myself from behind.

There's the problem.

The fabric hugs my body in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination—and I mean _nothing_. But it's not just that my panty line is plainly visible, though it is. It's what the dress does to my butt.

_Oh my god, Becky._

"Of course, she'll need better foundation garments," the designer explains. "Perhaps a thong..."

They were worried about new shoes making me uncomfortable, but they expect me to be okay with having a strip of elastic up my ass? Is someone going to break _that_ in for me, too?

"What she _needs_ is a dress that doesn't look like a negligée, though I suppose there's not much we can do about it now." Nell sighs as she looks over at me. "Can you even curtsy in it?"

I put my right foot behind my left heel and bend my knees. I'm wobbly, but I manage to keep my balance.

"Barely," she says, snickering. "Again."

My second attempt isn't much better. It takes a good hour before I'm consistently curtsying to her satisfaction. One dress down, three to go.

By the time the dressing room empties out, it's well after 8 p.m. Nell offers to have her cook send dinner over, but I politely decline. Now that I've seen myself in my bridesmaid dress, I doubt I'll be eating again until after the wedding. So instead of eating, I shut myself in my bedroom in 1A and lock the door. I miss Edward, but I miss being myself, too. Since he made it clear seeing him was not an option, I'm willing to settle for some quality _me_time—and that won't happen with the staff constantly breezing in and out. I go to bed ravenously hungry, emotionally spent, and physically exhausted. The idea that Esme probably feels like this all the time isn't lost on me. I close my eyes with a newfound respect for my sister.

I open them to find Edward sitting on the edge of my bed. I sit up in a panic.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to wake you."

I give my eyes a moment to adjust then glance at the clock. That it's the middle of the night explains why the room's so dark. What it doesn't explain is why Edward's here sporting a bespoke suit, a loosened collar, and five-o'clock shadow.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugs. "I needed to see you."

"But I locked the door..."

"Really? I knew you were mad at me, but I didn't think it was that bad." He walks over to the large double doors leading to the sitting room and tries the lever.

It doesn't budge.

"Wow," he says, laughing. "You weren't kidding. Nice try. Too bad doors are for pussies."

"Then how the hell did you get in here?"

He angles his head toward a floor-to-ceiling opening in the plaster wall. "I could swear I told you about the secret passageway."

"You didn't tell me it led to my bedroom!"

"If I had, it wouldn't have been secret, would it?"

I fall back against the pillows, groaning.

"What?"

"This need-to-know-basis bullshit is making me crazy!"

"Fine, then. Here's what you need to know: There's a secret passageway connecting our bedrooms."

I cross my arms over my chest and sigh. "God, I hate you."

"You can hate me all you want, as long as you come back to my apartment with me."

"Why?"

"You belong in my bed."

"You're unbelievable."

"What?" he asks, shrugging. "I promise to a be a gentleman."

"I don't want you to be a fucking gentleman. What happened to the guy who tried to get me naked on the first date?"

"Bella..." He lets out a long breath and sits on the bed beside me. "You said yourself you weren't ready for that."

"But you _were. _Last night you claimed it was all you ever think about. Then you touched me, and it was amazing. Seven hours later, you're apologizing for..." I curl my fingers into quotation marks. "...taking liberties. You wouldn't even kiss me. You haven't kissed me—not really—since I moved in here. Not even when your fingers were inside me..."

"I know my limitations. Things get out of hand when I kiss you."

"Would that be such a problem?"

"Under the circumstances, yes. You don't understand what you do to me. I want to offer you things that aren't mine to give, make promises I know I can't keep."

"I'm not asking for promises. I'm not trying to marry you; I just want to be close to you."

He closes his eyes, sighing. "I know."

I sit up and brush my fingers against his cheek. He catches my hand in his and holds it against his skin.

"Come to bed with me." His voice is firm, but his eyes are vulnerable.

"Okay."

**-o-O-o- **

Edward's arms are warm, his bed is soft, and I open my eyes thinking nothing in the world could pry me away from either one of them. Then nature calls. Doing my best not to wake him, I get out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom to care of business. But when I reach for the toilet paper, my fingers brush across an empty cardboard tube. With my underwear around my ankles, I hop off the toilet and penguin-walk my way over to the cabinet under the sink to look for a fresh roll.

Jackpot!

It's all good until I try to put the wrapper in the wastebasket. It won't fit through the inch-long slot in the lid, and no matter how hard I try, I can't pry the lid open. I take a closer look. There's a combination lock toward the top of the wastebasket.

Seriously? His _trash_ is in lockdown? This is too weird for words.

Dumbfounded, I finish my up and hurry back to Edward.

He's wide awake and waiting for me. "Good morning."

I climb into bed beside him. "You were out of toilet paper so I replaced it, but I had to leave the cardboard tube and wrapper on the counter because your trash can is locked."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," he says, pulling me into his arms.

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Instead, he plays with my hair.

"_Why _is your trash can locked?"

"It's just a precaution."

"Against what? What are you putting in there someone would want to steal?"

"Nothing exciting. Just condoms."

"Condoms?" I push him away and squint up at his face. "Who'd want a used rubber?"

"The issue is what's inside it. My Royal Jizm isn't meant for just _anyone_, you know."

I gape at him in disbelief, but not because he finds it necessary to take this kind of precaution. If I had any doubt as to how low a person would stoop for money, Royal Bitch's interview with my ex cleared it up for me.

But this is different. When Edward asked me to come to bed with him last night, he made it seem as if I was special—that he shares parts of his life he doesn't let many people see. But a locked wastebasket with an opening in the lid just large enough for used condoms? His bedroom must be Grand Central Station.

"You're upset," he says.

"No, I'm just surprised."

"Then why do you look like you're going to puke?"

"Okay, fine," I admit. "I'm appalled."

"Bella, you know very well I'm expected to take every precaution when I'm with someone. It got tedious after a while, so I found ways to follow standard procedure more efficiently."

"That's just it! I'm dating a guy who's been with enough women to have a standard procedure in place! How is that not appalling? No wonder you need a damned list!"

His mouth twitches as if he's fighting a smile. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were jealous."

"Of course I'm jealous!"

He throws his head back and laughs. "Outstanding."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not—I think it's great that you're psycho and clingy. In fact, I _look_ for those qualities in a woman."

I roll my eyes. "Now you're just patronizing me."

"I'm not. I've never been with someone who cared who I slept with as much as she cared about hanging onto a prince. And you've got to admit my dad did a pretty good job setting low expectations on fidelity."

That he did.

Not only are Prince John's exploits are legendary, he's completely unapologetic about them. When asked about public outcry over his marital infidelities, he famously replied, "You can't seriously expect me to be the first King of the Westerlands not to have mistresses."

As Edward's only living parent, Prince John must have rubbed off on him a little.

I fold my arms across my chest. "Is this where you tell me your dad raised you to be a manwhore?"

"I was raised to put duty before all else—that I can be a manwhore while I'm at it is one of the perks."

"Pig," I say, smacking him on the shoulder.

"I'm kidding. Despite my reputation, I've never had sex outside of what I thought were relationships."

"How can you _think_ you were in a longterm relationship? Doesn't the litany of documents you ask women to sign clear up any confusion?"

"When I was seventeen, there was this girl at the polo grounds. It took me weeks to get up the guts to even talk to her, let alone ask her out. Eventually, I invited her to go riding with me, and things just happened. That night, I told my dad I'd met someone and asked if I could invite her to dinner at the Palace. He gestured me into his study and had a footman pour us each a glass of scotch. After he congratulated me on becoming a man, he pulled the contracts she'd signed out of his desk. He admitted he'd hired her and suggested I stick with professionals until I wanted to look for a wife."

As horrified I am that Prince John hired a call girl for Edward's first time, I don't let it show. It's important that Edward know he can be upfront with me and I won't be judgmental. Besides, it's not as if I can fault him—the first guy_ I_ slept with sold his story to Royal Bitch, so I've also had sex with a whore and didn't know it.

"Anyway," he continues, "that was when he explained exactly what was expected of me if I was to pursue a relationship. He said a girl who thinks she has a chance to become a princess will sign just about anything."

"I'm not signing them because I want to be a princess."

"_You're _not signing them at all. I said you wouldn't have to if you hacked my fake Facebook account, remember?"

"It was just a stupid bet; I never expected you'd hold up your end of it. It's not worth you getting in trouble."

"I've already gotten in trouble. But the more I think about it, the less I want you to sign. That way when you end this and don't sell your story—and if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that you _will_ end this—at least I'll know it was real."

I open my mouth to tell him he's wrong, that I won't because I'm falling in love with him, then promptly shut it. We _don't _have a future together—if the past few days have shown me anything, it's that his world isn't for me. Acceptance to his circle has too many conditions; I'd have to change too much.

"I'm here now." I pull him into my arms. "And this is very real."

After a moment, he sighs then gently nudges me away. "I hate to bring this up now, but we don't have much time before things start to get crazy. I probably won't see you again until the rehearsal, and who knows when we'll be alone..."

"Okay."

"About this weekend. Without an engagement, we can't appear as a couple at official functions, and I have social responsibilities..."

"In other words, I shouldn't take it personally if I see you flirting with the world's most eligible princesses," I say, laughing. "I vaguely remember something similar when Esme was dating Carlisle. It's fine; I understand."

"I'd rather be with you." He hugs me tightly. "You're going to be amazing."

As much as I know I'll miss him, I don't let it get me down. Instead, I handle it the way I always do when there's nothing happening in my personal life: I focus on my job. Ballroom dance, deportment, and royal procedure may not excite me the way Dot Swan does, but I put as much effort into the rest of my time with Nell and Sir Alec as I did my time at Wharton.

By the night before the wedding, I'm as confident in the ballroom as I am in the boardroom. I even manage to calm down a bit about that damned white dress. I mean, let's be real, here. My sister's the main event. When she comes down the aisle, all eyes will be on her.

I seriously doubt anyone's going to be looking at my ass.

* * *

Thank you for all the lovely birthday wishes. Sorry I didn't send teasers this time. I didn't want to make you wait any longer for the chapter than you had already. Things are finally back to normal, and the next chapter won't take long at all. In fact, the next chapter has been written for months now. Thanks for being patient with this one.

xoxo.

C.


	20. His Royal Saber

While some of the traditions mentioned in this chapter are based on fact, some are simply the products of my imagination.

huge thanks to detochkina, lj summers, and my husband

* * *

**"The love of the people is my reward."**

**Karl XIV Johan of Sweden**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

**His Royal Saber**

* * *

_**Asses, Army Medals, and Scene-Stealing Siblings:**_

_**Part One of Our Royal Wedding Coverage**_

This morning at approximately 11:14 a.m., the former Miss Esme Platt became a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms of the Westerlands. The ceremony—much like Carlisle and Esme themselves—was completely unremarkable. No, really. Much to our surprise, the whole thing came off without a hint of drama. In fact, if not for the groom's brother and the bride's sister, we would have nothing interesting to write about. Exactly what did the best man and maid of honor _do_ to create such a stir, you ask?

Let's start with what they wore.

_**His Royal Hotness Prince Edward the Ginger**_

We expected he'd be in some kind of uniform, and not the kind one wears while asking, "Would you like fries with that?" Despite being a Royal Fuck-up, over the years Prince Edward has received several honorary military appointments, giving him his choice of threads. Imagine our shock when he arrived at the cathedral in the dress uniform of Her Majesty's Army, the insignia on which indicated the rank of Captain. Then our intern pointed out that among the medals on his chest was the Combat Service Medal, an honor only given to those who've completed military service in active war zones.

Though our intern has a history of hitting the hallucinogens, we sent a WTF email to Masen Palace just in case. We received the following response:

_Upon graduating from university, His Royal Highness Prince Edward of the Seven Kingdoms of the Westerlands attended Officer Candidacy School overseas with our allies as part of a special agreement between The Westerlands Ministry of Defense and Coalition Forces. His Royal Highness has since served three tours of duty in combat zones, having been deployed twice to Iraq and once to Afghanistan. The Ministry of Defense had kept the true identity of Captain Edward Cullen classified for the safety of the soldiers serving alongside him. As His Royal Highness is no longer on active duty, the Royal Family is now able to recognize Prince Edward's contributions to the war effort without putting others at risk._

Wait. You mean he's_ not _a fuck-up? All those "humanitarian missions" weren't stints in rehab? But! But! He drank the bong water! Best we can come up with: when the army asked for hair samples, he shaved EVERYTHING.

_**The Baby Sister Formerly Known as Not-a Swan**_

Our first glimpse of Isabella Swan was on the red carpet outside the cathedral. Her dress was white and fitted, with a draped neckline and slight train. Her partial updo framed her face nicely, and her makeup was flawlessly understated. We're going to be honest, here. If we didn't know who she was, we wouldn't have known who she was.

The mystery of what His Royal Hotness sees in her? Totally solved. In fact, she looked so good today, we can no longer justify calling her Not-a Swan. For a few minutes, we weren't sure what we'd call her. Then we got the full-length shot of her from behind.

Hello, Ass-a-bella!

_**Other than That...**_

Boring wedding is boring. We know other news sites are providing the usual detailed coverage, like the exact timeline of whom arrived when, which hymns were sung, the order of the processional, blah blah blah. You tell us what's more interesting: a Royal Wedding ceremony or the stuff royals whisper to each other when they think we can't hear them?

Clearly the latter.

This is why we hired a forensic lipreader to help us compile our own timeline with the juicy audio the TV cameras couldn't pick up. We should disclose that we can't verify any of his transcript as accurate, but then again, the same can be said of everything we post here at Royal Bitch.

Since we've never let that stop us before:

**10:25 a.m.**

Prince Carlisle to his brother Prince Edward outside the cathedral: "I hate walking into this place...always makes me think of Mom's funeral."

**10:30 a.m.**

Prince Carlisle to Prince Edward on their way to the altar: "No one will hold it against you if you change your mind."

Edward: "Shouldn't I be telling you that?"

**10:32 a.m.**

Prince Edward: "I think Carl-Philip is still drunk from last night."

Carlisle: "Just like he was at Gui's wedding. Nice."

**10:45 a.m.**

Charlie Swan to his stepdaughter Esme leaving the St. Regis: "You okay?"

**10:51 a.m.**

Bella Swan to her sister Esme on the steps of the cathedral: "I love you."

Esme: "I love you, too."

Bella: "You look beautiful."

Esme: "I'd better. I mean, after primping for ten years..."

Bella: (laughing) "Go get your... [_unreadable_]."

**10:53 a.m.**

Prince Carlisle to Prince Edward: "I wish Mom were here."

Edward: "Mom has the best seat in the house."

**10:55 a.m.**

Charlie Swan to Esme: "You okay?"

Esme: "Yeah."

**11:02 a.m.**

Prince Edward to Prince Carlisle: "She looks beautiful. Sexy. And her hair is down."

Carlisle: "Nice. How does Bella look?'

Edward: "I just told you."

**11:04 a.m.**

Prince Carlisle to Esme at the altar: "You're perfect."

**12:08 p.m.**

Queen Charlotte to her sister Princess Eleanor leaving the cathedral: "I don't care for their dresses."

Princess Eleanor: "No one does."

**12:15 p.m.**

Esme to Prince Carlisle during the carriage ride to Iron Palace: "Are you happy now?"

Carlisle: "Yes."

Esme: "You mean that, don't you?"

Carlisle: "Of course I do. I love you."

**12:32 p.m.**

Prince Carlisle to Esme on the balcony of Iron Palace: "They want a kiss."

Esme gives him a quick peck on the lips.

Carlisle: "Come on. You can do better than that."

**12:34 p.m.**

Prince Edward to his grandfather Prince Peter on the balcony of Iron Palace: "What's it take to get a beer?"

_**Here are some other things you may not know about the wedding of the decade:**_

Prince Edward's request for beer isn't as random as it sounds. Carlisle and Esme reportedly banned beer from their wedding reception because it's too low brow. His Royal Hotness allegedly threw one of His Royal Hissy Fits over having to go a whole day without his preferred alcoholic beverage.

Esme is the first royal bride who wasn't required to have her virginity verified; however, she was still required to undergo an exam by the royal gyno which allegedly took place last month.

Prince Carlisle is The Westerlands' first born-royal to sign a pre-nup. The best part? It was Esme's stepfather, Charles Swan, who required it. Turns out Carlisle's wealth is tied to the monarchy, whereas Esme has a substantial personal net worth.

Speaking of money, despite heavy government subsidy, it's believed that today's festivities are costing both Charles Swan and Prince John tens of millions of dollars. Weddings like this one aren't cheap.

2000 guests will attend the ceremony this morning, of whom 1000 were invited to the wedding breakfast immediately following at Iron Palace. These events are considered state functions and will be broadcast live on national television. Coverage is expected to wrap up mid-afternoon, allowing the bride and groom some downtime before the real party tonight at Masen Palace, which was described by a Palace spokesperson as a "low-key, intimate gathering for close friends and family."

Right. Because white-tie functions are so low-key, and a guest list of 500 totally qualifies as intimate. Most disappointing of all? Since Prince John is footing the bill with no cost to the citizens of The Westerlands, media is not permitted to attend. In fact, Masen Palace is so determined to keep things private that guests will be required to hand over their cell phones before entering the building. Why do we have a feeling this is when the really juicy shit will go down?

Here's hoping there's a waiter we can blackmail.

**COMMENTS** (showing 8 of 6498)

**Lady In Waiting**

A captain in the army? HOW THE FUCK CAN HE BE A CAPTAIN IN THE ARMY?!

**HRH Princess Edward**

Wait. How can he even wear fatigues? Isn't he allergic to polyester?

**Lauren M.**

Latex. He's allergic to latex. It's condoms that send him into prophylactic shock. Why are you people so dumb?

**Boners for Bomer**

Anaphylactic shock is what Prince Edward gets from wearing condoms. Prophylactic shock is what he experiences when they break.

**Leisure Suit Larry**

Captain Edward Cullen? I thought his last name was Masen.

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

As a member of the Royal Family, Prince Edward has no last name. Traditionally, they use their father's territory as their surnames while completing military service. In Edward's case, his father is Prince of the Cullen Islands, thus the name Edward Cullen.

What does everyone think about Bella? I thought she looked amazing. Did you know her ass has its own Facebook page? It came across my feed when boyfriend "liked" it. I can't say I blame him. As bottoms go, hers looked spectacular.

**Assman 11**

I know all about that Facebook page. Who do you think started it? ; )

**My Narcissistic Alias**

Why is everyone ripping on Esme's dress? I thought it was pretty.

**His Royal Gayness**

I'm interested in gowns, not girls. If a couture wedding dress and some woman's ass are in the same photo, it shouldn't be the woman's ass that catches my eye. The bride is supposed to be the center of attention. What has everyone been talking about? Edward's army uniform and Not-a's butt.

**-o-O-o-**

When Esme comes out of the bathroom of our suite at the St. Regis, she's no less green than she was going in.

She leans against the wall and sighs. "No one should ever be this stressed on her wedding day."

"You've got to stop throwing up eventually. It's been, what? Eighteen hours since you've eaten?"

"They're dry heaves. Hopefully they'll go away when my Valium kicks in."

"You shouldn't make yourself sick over this. You do this all the time, right? The crowds, the TV crews...You've handled them all before. Don't let it take away from your day. I mean, how long have you wanted this?" I make my voice as enthusiastic as possible hoping it will be infectious. "You're getting married!"

"It's the marriage part that's making me nervous."

I lead her over to the sofa and take a seat.

"Talk to me," I say, pulling her down beside me. "If you're having doubts about Carlisle...if you don't think you'll be happy—"

"I know I'll be happy. But Carlisle..." Her voice is soft, and she doesn't look at me. "They were hoping he'd call it off. They still do."

"Who?"

"The Royal Family. Nell's the only one with the balls to be vocal about it, but they _all_ feel that way. Even Edward. _Especially_ Edward. But he put his own feelings aside and convinced Carlisle not to call off the wedding. Edward's too noble for his own good—"

"Maybe you shouldn't have popped a Valium on an empty stomach—"

"Typical," she says, rolling her eyes. "I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you, and you think I'm high—"

"Because you're not making sense! Two weeks ago, you were all, 'Promise me you won't fall in love with him.' Now he's too noble for his own good?"

"Yes—and that's exactly why you shouldn't get any more emotionally involved than you are already. You need to understand something: Edward is not Carlisle. He will _always_ put duty first—"

"This isn't a bad thing."

"It is when Parliament has to approve your marriage! It doesn't matter what Edward wants. You won't live happily ever after—that's not how these things go. This is nothing more than a fling for him—that's all it can be. You're way too smart to believe the two of you have any kind of future together."

This isn't right. Hearing I can't have what I don't want shouldn't feel like this. My face shouldn't be wet. I shouldn't be choking on my breath.

Esme claps her hand over her mouth. "Oh my god. You do, don't you? You actually think you'll end up with him. Bella, no. It won't happen."

She's wrong. She has to be. She doesn't know how Edward's been with me, the things he's said, the rules he's broken, how determined he is to do right by me. He hasn't been acting like he's looking for some quick fun; he's acting like a man in love.

How could I have not seen it until now? Edward feels the same way about me that I do. And if he and I end up together, Esme will no longer be able to justify her decade-long waiting game.

"You're not like me, Bella. They'll never accept that you—"

"They accepted you, didn't they? What makes _you_ so much better than me? What? That you're thinner and prettier? You've spent the past decade dieting and primping—of course you're thin and pretty! We _both_ know what this is really about. You need to put me down to feel good about yourself—"

"That's not true."

"It _is _and you know it. Remember the day I graduated from Wharton? Daddy said he was proud of me, and you made this comment about there being far fewer HRHes in the world than there are MBAs. You make everything with us into a competition, and even when you win, you're not satisfied until I lose. Why can't you just be happy for me?"

"This isn't about _us_. Fuck!" With her palms against her forehead, she takes a deep breath, scrunching up her shoulders. "This is all my fault. I should never have kept this from you. I don't blame you if you hate me. God knows I hate myself right now." She pushes her hair away from her face and sighs. "Do you remember that list you found in Edward's apartment?"

"Oh, no. Stop right there." I know exactly she's doing—she's pulled this crap ever since we were kids. "All the times I've asked you what that list was, you pick today to finally come clean? Well, I'm not letting you do it. Whatever it is, it can wait. I'm not letting you off the hook this easily. You are _not _using your wedding as an alibi." I get up from the couch and head for the hallway separating our suite from that of our parents. "I'll send Mom to get dressed with you."

**-o-O-o-**

My parents notice things aren't right between Esme and me, but despite giving us _the look_ several times throughout the morning, neither of them call us out on it. My mom's too busy bossing around the stylists, and judging by the puffiness under my dad's eyes, he's got other things on his mind. To be honest, so do I. As various beauty professionals have their way with me, I mentally replay my last night with Edward. One thing he said to me stands out:

_"__If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that you _will_ end this."_

There goes Esme's theory. Edward wouldn't be worried about me dumping him if he was planning to dump me. I just need to see him. Then I'll know for sure. Thankfully, I know exactly how long I'll have to wait. The Royal Family is nothing if not precise, and everything is scheduled to the minute.

I spend five minutes riding from the St. Regis to the cathedral, then three minutes waiting for Esme's grand entrance.

Her car pulls up exactly on schedule. I saw her in her gown when we posed for pictures at the hotel, but there's something about how she looks right now. Even in the face of thousands of spectators and hundred there's an unreal serenity to her right now that makes me wonder if she took more Valium. Then she's close enough for me to notice she's grasping her bouquet so tightly her knuckles are white.

I don't care if I'm mad at her. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"You look beautiful."

"I'd better. I mean..." She sighs. "I _have _been primping for ten years."

I laugh. I can't help it. This is how it's always been with us—our fights are vicious, but the fallout never lasts long.

"Go get your HRH," I say.

It takes two minutes to get inside the cathedral and a minute to line up in the anteroom.

My dad takes Esme's hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says after a deep breath.

"Thank you."

She looks at him with narrowed eyes. "What for?"

"For letting me raise you. I know I'm not your father, that I'm your second choice for this. But I want you to know that from the first moment I laid eyes on you, as far I was concerned, you were mine. Even back then, there was nothing I wouldn't do for you. Esme..." He lets out a long sigh. "I don't care how many people are watching. If the past few weeks have given you any doubts at all—"

"Of course I have doubts. They're just not about Carlisle."

"Okay then, Freckles...okay." He leans forward and kisses her forehead through her veil. "Duchess, Princess, Queen—you'll never stop being my little girl."

"Thank you, Daddy." She throws her arms around his neck, then adds in a whisper, "You're not my second choice." After a moment, she pulls away and straightens her veil. "Let's do this."

Someone cues the music, and we start to walk. The schedule allots four minutes for the processional. Who knew walking past two thousand people would take so much time?

Just when I think we'll never make it to the front of the church, I see Edward. At least, I see Edward's back. Like Carlisle, he's standing with his back to the congregation facing straight ahead. The whole guy-not-looking thing goes back to when women were chattel and weddings were about forming alliances between ruling houses. The groom doesn't see his bride until he removes her cloak, at which point they're already legally married so he can't back out if she's ugly. The best man isn't allowed to look either. God forbid he should warn the groom in time for him to make a run for it.

When I'm finally close enough to check out Edward's butt, he turns around and catches me looking. He whispers something to Carlisle, as he looks me up and down, a smile slowly taking over his face.

I don't think he's ever looked as good as he does right now.

It's not that Edward's in uniform—I expected that he would be. When Queen Charlotte made Carlisle an honorary colonel of the Dornish House Guard so he could be married wearing their scarlet and gold regalia, the gossip blogs had a field day speculating which branch of the military would be forced to grant Edward a bullshit commission to spare him the humiliation of attending his brother's wedding in a morning coat. It's that he's in _his _uniform—the standard-issue dress blues all officers of Her Majesty's Army don for formal occasions—and he's told me enough about his time overseas for me to know he earned each and every one of the decorations hanging from his tunic.

When the ceremony is finished, Edward offers me his arm for the recessional. As soon as we complete the four-minute trek down the aisle, he narrows his eyes at me and starts to walk away.

"Where are you going? We're supposed to proceed directly to the carriages."

"I'll be there as soon as I adjust my saber," he says from over his shoulder.

"You're not wearing a saber."

"That's what _you_ think."

I can't help my smile. Maybe the dress doesn't look so bad on me after all.

**-o-O-o-**

Riding in an open carriage through the streets as throngs of people cheer for me? Unreal.

Walking into the private apartments of a palace I once toured on a class trip? Surreal.

My boyfriend's dad not-so-subtly flirting with me? This needs to not be real.

But it _was _real—all of it. It's how I came to be on the balcony of Iron Palace in front of a crowd of thousands trying to keep a straight face while Edward says inappropriate things to me.

To his credit, he_ is _being discreet about it. His eyes are focused on the crowd, and his smile fixed in place. I guess talking dirty in front of millions of people is the royal equivalent of using company time to send personal email.

"I can't believe they let you out of the hotel like that." He waves to the crowd. "Your dress was so tight when you bent down, you have the entire world trying to figure out if you're wearing underwear."

If he thinks our circumstances will compel me to let him have the last word, he's got another thing coming.

"I doubt that," I say, my smile fixed firmly in place.

"Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Wearing underwear?"

I laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Is that an invitation?"

"In front of millions of people? Just try."

The next thing I know, he's squeezing my ass.

"Hm." He brushes his hand down my cheek to the top of my thigh, then back up to where the side of my thong rests on my hip. "Nice," he says, giving it a tug.

I stomp on his foot.

He doesn't even flinch. "What was that for?"

"Your grandfather's two feet away!"

"He won't notice, and if he does, he'll understand. Do you have any idea how many men wish they were me right now? That _they_ were able to touch you like this?"

I play along even though I think he's full of shit. "Enlighten me."

"62,455—and counting."

"Oh? And where exactly did you get this number?"

"Your ass."

"Nice."

"I'm serious. Your ass has its own Facebook page."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Sure, it does."

"You think I'm making this up?"

"Not at all. I bet Rock Johnson started the page. He's probably been poking my ass all morning."

"You can't poke on fan pages; all you can do is give thumbs-up. Not that it matters. Poking and thumbing are so overdone. Facebook needs a new verb for what I want to do to you."

I swallow hard.

He presses his hand against my backside right where my bottom turns into my thighs. "Does that make you wet in here?"

Just when I think my face can't get any redder, Prince Peter looks over at us.

"Did you say something, Edward?" he asks.

Edward drops his hand back to his side. "I asked what it takes to get a beer."

Prince Peter laughs as he turns back to the crowd.

A second later, Edward's hand is back on my ass—and it stays firmly in place until we go inside for the reception.

The wedding banquet is exactly how Edward told me it would be: tedious, formal, and without any opportunity for us to interact with each other. The head table is T-shaped in order to accommodate the wedding party, our immediate families, and every major Royal in attendance. Even though Edward and I are both seated there, he's so far away I can't even see him. Meanwhile, the Queen is not only directly in my line of vision, she's close enough to engage in conversation with the people around me. And since Esme and Carlisle never bothered to present me to Her Majesty, it would be a huge breach of etiquette for me to participate.

So I don't. After what Esme said this morning, I _can't._ Not because I think she was right, but because I'm determined to prove her wrong. While everyone around me is feasting and chatting, I sit there pushing each of the five courses around their respective plates, afraid to eat because I was sewn into my dress this morning and afraid to speak because I don't want to offend my boyfriend's grandmother, all the while silently cursing Esme for robbing me of my chance to make a good impression. Even through all this, it's still hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact Her Majesty Queen Charlotte the First of Her Name is a few feet away from me making small talk with my dad.

Queen Charlotte looks exactly like her pictures, yet she's not at all what I expected. She's always been this larger-than-life figure, a force of nature in white gloves and sensible pumps. Up close, she's just a little old lady with formal manners and expensive clothing. It's hard to reconcile the woman in front of me with what I know of her from history. Hell, I can't even reconcile her with what I've heard from Esme. The Queen serves at the people's pleasure; she only has as much power as we give her. Something tells me that when it comes down to it, Edward won't give her much.

That my mouth hurts from smiling doesn't factor into my decision not to linger after Esme and Carlisle make their grand exit. The party later is supposed to be more relaxed, and I want to make sure I have the energy to enjoy it. As soon as Carlisle and Esme's classic Aston Martin disappears from view, my dad makes arrangements for our driver to bring the car around. I'm euphoric as I make my way to the driveway behind the Palace. I did it. I actually _did_ it. I survived the dress, the crowds, the TV crews, and my first exposure to the Queen. With the official stuff out of the way, I'm free to focus on what really matters to me.

Edward.

* * *

The great thing about honest prereaders is that they're not afraid to let you know if something sucks. Mine deserve a huge thanks for not just telling me what I want to hear—just as you deserve a huge thanks for waiting patiently as I wrote (and subsequently scrapped) four complete drafts of this chapter. Though I, too, am disappointed in myself for the amount of time it has taken me to update, I'd feel much worse had I posted something I thought was crap just for the sake of posting with expediency.

Thank you for staying with me.


	21. His Royal Coitus

thanks to Regina.

_**Rest in peace, Princess Lilian**_

_**1915-2013**_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

**His Royal Coitus**

* * *

**It's Official:**

**His Royal Hotness is Royally Pussy-Whipped**

Like every other news outlet in the world, we had photographers camped out at the St. Regis to get pictures of noteworthy guests leaving for tonight's post-wedding party. Flags, uniformed guards, and diplomatic license plates were a common sight as Royals and dignitaries from around the world walked the short distance between the hotel entrance and the shuttles to Masen Palace.

Not gonna lie—the parade of tiaras and ribbons climbing out of glorified busses was pretty entertaining. But the real story at the St. Regis this afternoon involved His Royal Hotness Prince Edward the Ginger and his main squeeze, Assabella, formerly known as Not-a Swan. Those who camped out early hoping to catch a glimpse of taxpayer-funded opulence from around the world were afforded a special treat: Roughly an hour before the shuttles began ferrying guests to the evening festivities, a car pulled up and out came His Royal Hotness. We're not sure what we find more amazing—the sight of Prince Edward in tails or the fact that he somehow managed to make his way inside building without sending any of our esteemed photojournalists to the hospital.

An hour and a half later, Prince Edward re-emerged. In one of the strangest maneuvers we've ever seen, he allowed his guard to hold the door open for him, then insisted he hold the door for Assabella, a vision in a purple Elie Saab. If she hadn't gotten her skirt caught in something on the walk to the car, we'd say she hit today out of the park. Not that we're complaining—it's not every day we get to see a prince on his knees.

And what a sight it was! Assabella whispered something to His Royal Hotness, and a second later, he was crouched down beside her, fiddling with the hem of her dress.

Chivalry lives. Who knew?

**COMMENTS** (showing 11 of 6289)

**Boners for Bomer**

You'd think a fancy place like the St. Regis would have hideaway parking for its guests who rent rooms by the hour.

**Lady-In-Waiting**

No mention of Esme anywhere. I wonder how she feels about her little sister's ass stealing all the attention.

**swatchdogs-n-dietcokeheads**

Anyone else notice the bling on Bella? I'm 99% sure that's Princess Elizabeth's bracelet on her wrist.

**Lady-In-Waiting**

Now that's got to bother the shit out of Esme. Besides the tiara she wore this morning, I've never seen her wear any of the Royal Jewels.

**His Royal Gayness**

The bracelet looks like it's part of the set Queen Charlotte gave Princess Elizabeth as a wedding gift. If so, it's Edward's personal property. Where's Royal Watcher1? He'd know for sure.

**Leisure Suit Larry**

Royal Watcher1 is never online during big events. He waits until they're over, then posts to tell us how wrong we are about everything.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

None of us were surprised to see Edward. We were told he'd be there, and that he and Bella would stop to pose for pics on their way to the car.

**Troll E. McCavetroll**

Do you think that bit with her dress was faked?

**Monarch Shutterfly**

Not unless she's a really good actress. The "oh shit" look on her face was too real. Plus, I was close enough to hear what they were saying to each other. If it was scripted, he needs to fire his PR people.

**Lady-In-Waiting**

And? You can't just leave us there.

**Monarch Shutterfly**

She told him his curtsy was piss poor, but it was nice for him to be the one on his knees for a change. He said he couldn't wait to get her alone.

-o-O-o-

Maybe I'm still high from the euphoria of surviving this morning, but I can't take my eyes off my reflection in the mirror.. At my fitting two days ago, I felt as if my dress was wearing me. The corset inside the bodice is just as tight, the skirt just as full. But now that my hair and makeup are done, the dress doesn't seem too over-the-top. I've never worn anything like it, but I still feel like myself in it—just a prettier, worldlier, more polished version of the person I've always been.

Holy shit. I'm actually going to pull this off. I'm giggling as I twirl—even as a little girl, I can't remember ever being this giddy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edward standing in the doorway.

I freeze.

"Don't stop on my account." He gestures for me to keep turning as he moves toward me.

Except I can't. I can't move. I can't even _speak_.

I knew what he'd be wearing from pictures. Full evening dress doesn't leave much room for interpretation, and Edward is nothing if not consistent: Black tailcoat. White waistcoat, shirt, and bow tie. Blue sash indicating membership in the Royal Order of the Tardus Scriptors, held in place by a silver star. Even when I hated him, I'd admit he was hot like this.

I close my mouth when he's in front of me. Tonsils aren't cute. I doubt he's enjoying his view of mine.

He pulls me into a tight hug. After a quick squeeze, he drops his arms and takes a few steps back. He doesn't even try to hide the fact he's checking me out.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Who let you into my room?"

"Your mom," he says, laughing.

I roll my eyes. "Nice. What are you? Twelve? It was a serious question—"

"And that was a serious answer. Your mom let me into your room after I was finished talking to your dad..." He shakes his head and smiles. "God, you look beautiful."

"Why were you talking to my dad?"

"Isn't that customary before a date? Have a sit-down with the old man and try to convince him you're not planning to do unspeakably dirty things to his daughter?"

"So you lied to him."

"Maybe a little..." He brushes his fingertips down my neck to my collarbone.

I take a sharp breath.

"You need to relax," he says, reaching into the pocket of his trousers.

He's out of his mind if he thinks I'm smoking with him. There's no way I'm showing up at the Palace tonight high.

"Keep the pot in your pocket. The only thing I want from in _there_..." I angle my head toward his crotch. "...is Your Royal Scepter."

"Just the scepter, huh? No interest in the Crown Jewels?"

"Obviously, I'd prefer the whole package, but you said the jewels weren't yours to give."

"I spoke too soon." He pulls something sparkly from his pocket and dangles it in front of me.

It's exquisite. A delicate chain links together several clusters of diamonds and amethysts to form a substantial bracelet. I've seen my share of bling; god knows my mother has enough of it. This is different. This is the kind of jewelry that would be in a museum if the Royal Family wasn't hoarding it—and they do hoard it. Most of their collection never leaves the vault. That Queen Charlotte allowed Esme to wear a tiara this morning was a huge deal.

Meanwhile, Edward's carrying a piece of it loose in his pocket as if it's a tin of Altoids.

He reaches for my hand. "May I?"

My arm trembles as he works the clasps. Even after bracelet is fastened around my wrist, I stare at it, stunned by the value of what he's given me. Not the bracelet—I know very well that's just a loan. But the trust that comes with it is mine to keep.

And that's priceless.

"Do you like it?" he asks. "I know you don't generally wear this kind of thing—"

"I love it. I'll make sure you get it back right after the party."

"I was hoping you'd want to keep it."

I laugh. "Of course I do, but I doubt it's up to me—or even you, for that matter."

"Actually, the bracelet was my mother's, so it _is_ up to me. It's yours for as long as you want it."

"Thank you." I pull him against me for I mean to be a quick hug—the last thing I want is for us to show up at the Palace looking like we spent the car ride fooling around.

But I can't find it in me to let him go.

After a moment, he sighs. "We should get out to the car."

"Okay, just give me a second." When I step away from him to check myself in the mirror one last time, I catch him staring at me. There's an intensity to his eyes that makes me all kinds of self-conscious, so I fiddle with my skirt and say the first thing that comes into my head. "Did you come into the hotel through the back?"

"The front."

"See, if I'd known you were coming I would've told you to pull up behind the building. That's how we left for the ceremony this morning. It's set up so no one can see—"

"I want _everyone _to see."

"There will be pictures everywhere." I raise my arm and point to my bracelet. "People will notice."

"You think?"

I study his face in the mirror. It's obvious he's manipulating the media. What I don't know is why.

"Why did you wear your uniform to the ceremony this morning?"

His eyes are on his reflection as he straightens his sash. "The men in my family always wear uniforms to weddings."

"I meant your _own_ uniform. Your military record is the hot topic online right now."

"Oh, I bet your ass is hotter." He reaches behind me and grabs my butt.

I smack him away. "No, really. You had to know it would out you."

"It was time. My army days are over, and the last thing I need is for your father to think of me as Prince I Drank The Bong Water."

I narrow my eyes at him.

"What?" he asks, laughing.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Then why are you laughing?"

"Because I should've realized it wouldn't work!"

"No, you should've realized it wasn't _necessary_. My dad forms his own opinions. He doesn't know you well enough to dislike you."

"Oh, he doesn't dislike me—he made that clear. But he doesn't want me anywhere near you. Your mom, on the other hand..." He shakes his head. "When she let me in here, she made a point of telling me that she and your dad were leaving and we'd have the whole suite to ourselves. She actually winked at me. "

I cringe. "Sorry. I hope she didn't embarrass you too much."

"Eh." He turns to me, shrugging. "You're worth it."

When I open my mouth, the words just tumble out. "I love you, Edward."

He doesn't react—not at all.

He pulls me into his arms and holds me tightly against him.

"Will you stay with me?" he asks. "I mean, after..."

I don't care that he doesn't say _I love you_ back—there's a desperation in his voice that tells me exactly how he feels. I'm not sure if he's asking me to spend the night with him or to spend my life with him, but my answer's the same regardless.

"Yes."

-o-O-o-

It amazes me how much my week-long crash course in royal protocol didn't cover. I don't sit with Edward at dinner, though not because the Palace doesn't acknowledge me as his girlfriend. Apparently, established couples are always separated at formal meals. So I break bread with four princesses, two princes, two grand dukes, and a count, wondering exactly when Edward and I became official.

After dinner, Edward introduces me to Queen Charlotte. We're alone except for a footman, so the rules are a bit more relaxed—even for me. I do a small dip instead of a full curtsy and address her as _Ma'am _rather than_ Her Majesty. _Meanwhile, Edward only ever refers to her _Grandma._

This is what's so crazy. If the little old lady in front of me wasn't dripping with jewels, I wouldn't know I was talking to a monarch, not that it matters—that's not the reason I can't stop tapping my foot against plush red carpet. When it comes to whether or not someone likes me, I'm down to my last few fucks. I'm not about to waste a single one on this divine right crap. But the opinion of Her Majesty Queen Charlotte The First of Her Name matters to Edward, therefore I _do _give a fuck.

The more time I spend talking to her, the more frustrated I get. I can't read her—not at all. My ankle tires out, and I switch feet. Good thing my gown relatively full. The whole stiletto-stuck-in-tulle-underskirt debacle is a small price to pay for the ability to fidget undetected. She changes the subject, but it's still small talk. How can a conversation about nothing go on this long?

At some point, my foot falls asleep. It reminds me of the day Edward came to my office to apologize for puking on me, except the stakes are higher. Then it was about pride—and when it comes to relationships, pride's the one thing I can swallow without gagging. But a chance at love? No way I'm giving that up without a fight.

I shift my weight and try to wiggle my foot back to life. But before I can get the pins and needles to go away, my heel catches on the carpet.

And there goes my shoe.

My blood pressure pressure rises and my face gets hot. It's just a matter of time before the eye twitch kicks into gear...

Ah yes. At least I'm consistent.

The Queen turns to Edward. Just as I'm about to risk a stealthy shoe-recovery mission, she looks back at me and nods.

"Lovely meeting you, Bella."

From the corner of my eye, I notice Edward bowing his head. I have no idea why he's doing it, but I know better than to question it. My right foot takes a small detour as it moves behind my left heel, collecting my shoe in the process.

I sink into a full court curtsy feeling nothing less than triumphant.

By the time I straighten my posture, Edward and I are alone.

"Come on," he says, offering me his hand. "Let's get out of here."

He leads me back to the ballroom. The orchestra's playing to an empty dance floor.

"Where is everyone?"

"At their tables where we left them."

I wrinkle my forehead. "Still?"

"They were a good half hour from adjourning to the ballroom."

"But we were in the audience room for such a long time..."

"Four whole minutes," he says, laughing. "An eternity."

"Unless you've ever lost _your _shoe during a conversation with a monarch, you're in no position to judge!"

"You lost your shoe?"

"Yes! Thank god I saw you bowing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have curtsied, and that's how I got it back. By the way—why _did_ you bow? I thought your family didn't do that in private."

"We don't. My dad poked his head in for a second. King Juan Carlos was with him."

Makes sense. Those two _would_ hang out together.

"How do you think it went?"

He thinks for a moment. "As well as can be expected under the circumstances."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not my grandmother's favorite person right now."

"Uh oh." I fake a nervous laugh. "What did you do?"

"It's more what I haven't done."

He takes a few steps forward and turns to face me, dropping his arms to his sides. The look on his face is one I know well—it usually means he wants something. Then he bows, and I don't care if I'm being hypocritical—Edward bowing to me is the sexiest thing I've ever seen. If he keeps it up, he'll get whatever he wants.

"May I have this dance?" he asks, extending his hand to me.

"I don't think we can until Carlisle and Esme have their first dance..."

"I can't wait that long to touch you."

We're making a huge faux pas, but I can't bring myself to say no to him. I give him my hand, hoping no one catches Our Royal Gaffe. Edward pulls me into his arms and leads me in a slow foxtrot. I expect him to know how to dance. What I don't expect is for him to be quite so practiced and graceful.

It's unreal. The man is fluent in four languages. He rides, shoots, and fences. He plays the piano, and he cooks. And he can dance. There has to be something he _can't_ do.

"Random question: how are you at art?"

"I took a few Art History courses at university."

"I mean drawing, painting, photography...stuff like that."

"I'm okay with a pencil. Once I drew a dirty picture in art class and the teacher didn't punish me because it was so well done. I don't have my dad's talent for watercolors, if that's what you're asking. Why?"

"You're a really good dancer."

He laughs. "Uh, okay. Not sure I see the connection there."

"I'm beginning to think you're good at everything."

"Yes, I'm good in bed."

"Perv!" I smack him on the shoulder. "I wasn't even thinking that way. I just don't think I've ever met anyone as well-rounded."

"My education was designed so I'd be able to speak to anyone about anything without making an ass of myself. So yes, I have a basic understanding of just about everything that could come up during small talk. It's hard to speak knowledgeably about something you've never done."

"And no one's ever stumped you? There has to be something you can't do."

He thinks for a moment. "I don't think I could make it without my title."

"Right," I say, rolling my eyes. "Because you didn't have a successful career in the military or anything. You went to war. If you were that inept, you'd be dead right now. Nice try, though."

"I'm serious. Even when I was deployed to active combat zones, I had two Royal Protection Officers watching my back. Of course I never fucked up—they wouldn't let me. Sometimes I wonder what life would be like without them watching my back, if I'd have amounted to anything..."

"I think you'd surprise yourself."

"Maybe."

It's heavy talk for the dance floor, and the last thing I want is for him to feel bad about himself.

"I didn't mean for this to be a downer. I was waiting for you to tell me you couldn't sing or something."

"Oh, but I _can_ sing. In fact, I have perfect pitch."

Right. Now he's just fucking with me.

"You're lying."

"Am I? Now would you please just shut up? This was my mom's favorite song, and you're ruining it for me."

"Sorry!"

"Don't be sorry. Be quiet!" He gives me a stern look, but when he pulls me closer, I can feel his chest rumbling with laughter.

A moment later, he sings softly in my ear. "In these dreams, I loved you so that by now I think I know what it's like to be loved by you..."

Uh, yeah. I may not be able to tell perfect pitch from a pothole, but the man can definitely carry a tune.

"...I will love being loved by you."

As we glide across the floor, I think this is what it must be like to live in a fairytale. Not because Edward's a prince—that's just an accident of birth. It's that he makes me feel as if I'm a princess.

He raises his arm for me to turn, and when I do, my hip brushes against His Royal Hard-On. Oh, yes—definitely a fairytale. Someday, my prince will come.

I can't help my laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You're hard."

"I am. And when I finally get you alone," he whispers, "I'm getting you naked and putting my mouth on you. After you come, I'm going to make love to you the way you deserve—that's how it will be the first time. The second time, I'm giving you the thorough fucking we _both_ know you need."

I trip over my feet.

"Not funny anymore, is it? I didn't think it would be."

There's only one thing I need to know.

"How soon can we leave?"

-o-O-o-

When I come out of the bathroom, Edward's standing beside the bed, barefoot and shirtless.

He unbuttons his trousers as he moves toward me. "Turn around."

So I do. He lifts my hair off my back and lets it against my chest. His lips move from my shoulder to my neck, following the trail of my zipper as he slowly pulls it down my back.

I have the feeling this time is different—that if I want it to happen, it will. And I do want it. I want _him._

This doesn't stop me from clutching my gown against my chest.

The only other guy I've been with likened me to a Buick, and I seriously doubt four years of celibacy have improved my skill set.

"I want you," I tell him, "but I want it to be good."

His forehead wrinkles. "You think it won't be?" He slides his hand into my gown and cups my bare breast. "I know you like _this_..." He rubs my nipple between his thumb and index finger. "And _this_..." He gives it a squeeze.

"That's stuff you're doing to me. The stuff I'd to you? Supposedly, I'm pretty bad at it..." I shrug. "And I haven't done any of it for a long time."

"It's like riding a horse. You never forget how."

"I've never ridden a horse."

"Oh. Still, you shouldn't be nervous about pleasing me—anything you can do to me is going to make me happy. As long as you tell me what you like..."

I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a sigh.

He pulls me back against his chest. "Come on, Bella. You've never had a problem telling me what was on your mind before."

"Sex."

"Sex?" The word hangs on his breath, hot enough to make me shiver. "What about it?"

"You've only ever been with women of a certain experience. Meanwhile, my ex told the world I was bad in bed."

Edward sighs. "Your ex took money from Royal Bitch. He has no credibility."

"But if he's right—"

"He isn't." He lets go of me and takes a step back.

Oh shit. Please tell me my nerves haven't made him change his mind about this. I know performance anxiety isn't hot, but I never thought it would be_ this _much of a mood killer.

"Edward..." My eyes are downcast I turn to face him. Then I see his trousers slide down his legs into a bunch at his ankles. A second later, his dark gray briefs follow suit.

"I won't let us have bad sex." He steps out of one pant leg, then the other, before kicking them across them room. "I don't believe in it."

When I finally look up, it's at his face. For a second or two, they actually stay there. As much as I want to check out His Royal Scepter, I don't want to be obvious about it. Despite my good intentions, my gaze slowly creeps down to his chest and stomach. The light spattering of reddish hair around his navel gets darker and thicker until it stops altogether at the base of his penis.

Yep, he's definitely a grower. He's also extremely well-groomed. I can just _imagine_ the kind of paperwork Edward required His Royal Manscaper to sign. I'll ask him about it later. Right now, I just want to touch him.

I hold my bodice against my chest with one hand and reach for him with the other. Slowly, I close my fingers around the shaft. He's hot and smooth and very, very hard. I watch his face as I give him a little squeeze.

He closes his eyes as he gasps. I slide my hand along his length then brush the underside of his head with my thumb. He lets out a quiet moan.

For a while, I take my time exploring him. I want to know every vein, where he's most sensitive, and whether or not he's ticklish.

Eh, fuck it. We'll have plenty time for this later. I let go of his scepter and push my dress to the floor.

"Impatient much?" He's laughing as he takes a step toward me and cups my face in his hands.

Ever so slowly, he brushes his lips against mine.

It's chaste and tentative, and it doesn't matter that we're both naked and less than a minute ago, I was jerking him off. His kiss makes no assumptions.

"I love you, Bella."

His eyes are closed as he says it, but that makes it no less sincere. I thread my fingers through his hair and pull his face to mine.

This time, he doesn't hold back. His hands creep down to my bottom, lifting me so my hips are flush with his and my feet don't touch the floor. He walks us toward the bed. I tighten my arms around his neck to make it easier to carry me and up scratching him with my bracelet.

"Sorry." I press my lips against the narrow red stripe that runs from his chest to his collarbone. "I should probably take it off before you end up needing stitches or something."

"Keep it on." He lays me down on the bed.

I lean back onto my elbows and smile. "You thought about this, didn't you? Me, here, wearing the bracelet and nothing else?"

"Not exactly." He shakes his head and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of my panties. "I wanted you like _this._"He pulls them off me, then gentlypushes my legs apart.

For a while, he just looks at me. I wait for him to move between my legs, but he doesn't. Without breaking eyecontact, he licks the back of his thumb and presses it between my legs. With a light touch, he drags it along one lip, then the other.

Then he does it again, but this time, he pushes inside me. Then he drops to his knees. replaces his thumb with his tongue.

Oh my god.

He licks and sucks and finger fucks, all the while keeping his eyes on mine. I hear myself making noises and telling him how good it feels. The tension builds and builds, almost to the point of pain. My body goes rigid; my hips come off the bed. Then it happens, and I feel it everywhere from the inside my ears to the soles of my feet.

Edward keeps his mouth on me until my breathing returns to normal. Then he climbs on the bed and lies on his back with his head on one of the pillows.

"So..."

"So?" I ask, stretching out beside him.

"And you thought cunnilingus was on the NDA for show!"

I'm laughing as he traces the perimeter of my nipple with index finger. Then he starts to flick it with his tongue, and I can't remember what I thought was funny. His hand moves back between my legs as he sucks my nipple into his mouth.

After what he just did to me, I want to go down on him. The problem is I've given exactly three blow jobs in my life and gagged through each and every one of them. Since that's two more times than my ex went down on me, I never felt compelled to hone my skills. I do now.

Edward grazes my nipple with his teeth as he releases it. "I want to watch you come again." He pushes himself on top of me and settles himself between my legs.

He presses his hips against mine with a slow, even rhythm. Though his pace stays the same, little by little, he increases his pressure.

Whoa there.

Was that him inside me just now? It couldn't have been much—probably just the tip—but he still should put on a condom. I open my mouth to tell him, but he's already shifted his hips and pulled out of me. Guess it was just a slip. I a_m_ pretty wet down there.

He sits up so he's kneeling between my thighs. One hand he rests on my stomach, the other he wraps around his penis. His gives it a quick tug then rubs it against me.

I close my eyes and slowly blow the air out of my lungs. How the hell does he do this? I'm close to coming already.

He's inside me again. Like before, it's just the tip and only for a second. I don't say anything about it—I'm worked up enough that the last thing I want is for him to stop. He shifts his hips and pushes forward, entering me more deeply. Once again, he pulls out right away.

He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine.

"Is it okay when I do this?"

I feel his penis rub against me where I'm most sensitive. "Oh yes."

"And this?" he asks, pressing himself inside me.

It's too shallow to count. I raise my hips to bring him in a bit deeper.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Please."

"I love you..." He cups my face in his hands and brushes his thumbs across my cheeks. "...and I'm going to care of you. You know that, right? I'm yours for as long as you want me."

He kisses me—a slow, deep tongue kiss that makes me feel dizzy even though I'm lying down. Ever so slowly, he pushes inside me. He's a lot bigger than what I'm used to, and though I wouldn't say it hurts, I have to stretch a bit to accommodate him. When he's in as far as he'll go, he stills.

For a while, he stays like that.

"The way you feel around me...I knew it would be different like this. That I'd be able to feel..." He pulls out until just his head is inside me, then slowly pushes back in. "...all of your soft, wet heat." His movements fall into a slow, steady rhythm. "You're even tighter than I thought you'd be. God, I'm so close already. But I want you to go first..."

"I'm not there yet."

"Are you close?"

Part of me thinks I should fake it—it's what I've always done before. The handful of times I told my ex something wasn't working for me, he got really offended. But something tells me Edward's enough of a man to want to know the truth.

"No," I admit.

He cradles me against his chest and rolls over so he's on his back and I'm straddling him. "Maybe this will be better."

If he's at all offended, it doesn't show on his face.

"Thank you." I lean forward and kiss him.

He lines us up in such a way that when I sit up, I take him inside me.

Okay, this is nice. I shift my hips. This is _very_ nice.

He brushes his thumbs across my nipples. "Better?"

I raise my hips, then slowly lower them. "Yes."

"What about this?" He rubs me right above where we're joined.

"Mm hm." My movements get faster and faster. "I'm right...there...Don't stop...Yes!" I feel myself pulsing as fall forward onto him, an inarticulate mess of sweat and tingles.

"May I finish?"

I nod against his chest.

He rolls me onto my back again. His thrusts are deep, and his moans are loud. It doesn't take long for him to finish. After he softens inside me, he gathers me into his arms my kisses my forehead.

"You're perfect," he whispers.

Seconds later, he's asleep. After the day we had, I can't say I blame him. I'd probably be asleep right now, too, if I didn't have to pee.

I get out of bed and head into the bathroom to take care of business. Once again, he's out of toilet paper. What is it with this man and TP? You'd think his staff would make sure the roll never runs out. I hop off the toilet and open the cabinet under the sink. Thankfully, there's a stack of extra rolls right next to the used-condom receptacle—the condom receptacle that sits empty because we didn't use protection.

My ass hits the marble floor with a muffled thud.

How the hell could we be this stupid?

* * *

**PSA: Practicing safe sex is extraordinarily important. Getting caught up in the moment, as Bella did, isn't smart. That being said, I'm not writing an after-school special. Just because my characters can engage in risky behavior without it biting in them in the ass doesn't make it okay. **

(And no, she's not getting pregnant or catching an STD. I do, however, have my reasons for writing the scene the way I did.)

"I Have Dreamed" copyright 1951 Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein.

Thanks for reading. xoxo.


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